


Bloody Sunday: The Journal of Brigid Saoirse O'Donnell (1971-1972)

by HarrisonHolmes2014



Category: Original Work
Genre: Basically Romeo and Juliet in Northern Ireland, Death, Diary/Journal, F/M, I'm Sorry for Making YET ANOTHER Rewrite of This Play, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Northern Ireland, Northern Irish Troubles, Romeo and Juliet References, Sad, The Troubles, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-17 18:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 22,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3539369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarrisonHolmes2014/pseuds/HarrisonHolmes2014
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Belfast during the early 1970s, Irish Catholic Brigid O'Donnell keeps detailed records of the Troubles...especially of her relationship with Sean McLaughlin, a Protestant neighbor originally from England.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

10 September 1971

When I was young, my mother told me the story of my name. “The name Brigid means ‘fiery arrow,’ and Saoirse means ‘freedom,’” she told me. “And believe me, love, Saint Brigid was a fiery arrow. She never let anything stand in the way of doing good. She was Ireland’s first freedom fighter, bringing hope to the poor. Perhaps one day, my little Brigid Saoirse, you’ll live up to your name and blaze a path of freedom for the good of the Belfast Catholics. God knows we could use the help.”

Well, whether or not I do something to help Catholics in Northern Ireland, we at least have one person in the family who’s set on a course to do that: my big brother, Padraig. He joined the IRA in 1969. He and others in the Provos have been fighting for our rights as Catholics all over Northern Ireland.

Padraig isn’t the first in our family to be part of the IRA. My uncle Oisin and his two oldest sons are all in jail because someone informed on them. Our link goes back to my great-grandfather Eamon O’Donnell, a soldier who fought in the Easter Rising, Ireland’s first taste of freedom, in 1916. When he died just before Padraig was born, he asked my dad to name the baby after Patrick Pearse because he admired him so much. All of us were at least a little happy when Padraig told us he’d joined the IRA. He’s fighting a very noble battle, in my opinion.

Me, I can’t really do anything about how the government treats us. The Provos don’t let women fight, and anyways I still have eight days until I turn eighteen. So instead, I rebel with words: I use my family’s typewriter to keep journals and talk about what’s going on. It’s good practice for when I become a newspaper reporter. Since I talk about things that the police wouldn’t like, though, I have to keep my typewriter journals a secret. I keep finished entries under a loose floorboard in my room, and nobody knows that I keep them except my family.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

15 September 1971

Today I had to take my little siblings to Falls Park while my parents went to work, Dad in the factory and Mum in Scott O’Hara’s pub. I have a couple of jobs too, but since my weeks aren’t as crowded as my parents’, the rest of the time I have to keep Liam, Finn and Maebh entertained. I tried to talk Mum and Dad into making Dechtire do it, because she’s fifteen and old enough to look after them, but of course she can get out of it because she has to go to school.

Anyway, I took the three young ones to the park this afternoon. Thankfully it’s not too far from our house in Glen Road, because the boys were antsy today. The minute we got there, Finn and Liam picked up two sticks and held them like guns. “Pow!” shouted Finn, pointing his stick at Liam, who dodged the invisible bullet.

“Ha, ha! Missed!” Liam teased him, running behind a tree. Finn chased after him. It’s really kind of sad that an eleven-year-old and an eight-year-old love to play shooting games, but I guess with our family’s track record, I should expect it to happen.

Maebh, who’s only six and usually left out of the boys’ games, sat with me on an old bench with peeling blue paint. Someone had carved “Provos Forever” into the back of it. “Tell me a story,” Maebh said, her big green eyes begging.

“Which one do you want to hear?” I asked, even though I knew what she’d say.

“Red Eva McMurrough!”

I smiled. Maebh loved the tale of the wild, redheaded warrior more than any other, even the old legends of the Fianna, my favorites. “All right,” I said. I started to tell the story of how Red Eva was taller than any other woman in Ireland, and how she used to braid pieces of iron into her long, dark red hair and knock men flat with it. People sometimes call me “Red Brigid” because I apparently have Red Eva’s temper as well as her hair. Even though she’s heard the story five hundred times, Maebh laughed and gasped at all the right moments.

I’d just reached the part where Red Eva swears to reincarnate as a red Kerry cow when I heard a loud shout. Liam had just rugby-tackled Finn and they were wrestling under the trees. “I’ll get you!” Liam cried, dodging one of Finn’s fists. “I’ll get you, you bloody Fenian!”

“Boys!” I yelled, jumping to my feet at the sound of that word. As I ran to them, Maebh tagging along behind me and our rosaries swinging around our necks, I did a quick scan of the park to see if anyone was around. You never know if some disguised member of the Ulster Volunteer Force, the Protestant equal of the Provos, is listening in on your talk. I pried my brothers apart, still shaken up. “I think we need to go home,” I said sternly.

“Aw,” they both groaned, but they got up and brushed the grass from their clothes. Holding Maebh’s hand, I led them away from Falls Park.

After looking around to make sure no one was listening, I said to Liam and Finn, “Don’t ever say that word outside of our house again.”

“What? ‘Fenian?’” giggled Liam.

“Shh!” I hissed at them. “That word. Don’t ever say it in the open again. With our family it’s okay, but not out here where anyone can hear you.”

“Why?” asked Finn.

I sighed. “Please just listen to your big sister for a change,” I said.

How can you explain to children that they could get our whole family arrested, or even killed, if they aren’t careful about where they open their mouths?  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

18 September 1971

I had a fairly calm, understated eighteenth birthday today. Mum made my favorite kind of cake, strawberry, and Dad opened a bottle of whiskey for all of the older kids. Once he had poured everyone some of the drink, both of my parents and all of my siblings raised their glasses. “To our Red Brigid,” said Dad, “a beautiful young adult!” I blushed as everyone clinked glasses and drank to me.

Mum smiled at me from across the table. “I’m afraid we haven’t got many presents for you, Brigid. We could only afford one, and – ”

“Don’t worry about it, Mum,” I cut her off.

“We all chipped in to get it for you,” said Padraig.

“Even me!” said Maebh, grinning up at me. “I gave Mum and Dad all the change in my piggy bank!” Everyone around the table laughed.

“I can go and get it, then,” said Padraig, getting to his feet. We all waited quietly, listening to him go upstairs and then come back down a minute or so later, grunting. My present must’ve been heavy, because Padraig is a strong man. Then he came back into the kitchen, and I let out a cry of happiness.

My family had bought me a new typewriter. It was a beautiful thing, black and shining with clean white lettering on the keys. Padraig set it down in front of me and I touched my hands to the keys, testing them. They moved very fast: they must have been adjusted lighter than our rickety old family typewriter. Dechtire, the artist of the house, had painted the name _Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell _on the side of the typewriter in bold red letters. My family had even bought an ink ribbon and put it in for me.__

“Now you can have a typewriter for your very own,” Dad said.

I was speechless, but everyone understood. I’ve been using my new typewriter tonight to write this journal entry, so that I can break it in and start getting used to it. The keys are so light that I keep pressing them too hard.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

24 September 1971

I had an exciting afternoon…I got caught in the middle of a grenade fight.

You see, I live near a Peace Line. These are walls that separate Catholic neighborhoods from Protestant ones. Our line runs straight between the Falls Road, in the Catholic neighborhood, and Shankill Road in the Protestant neighborhood. The Peace Lines are supposed to keep us away from the rich unionist bastards and keep us safe. But no matter where you go in Belfast, bad things still seem to happen.

I was walking home from my post as a shopgirl in Victoria Square this afternoon. On the way home, I have to walk along the Falls Road, right beside the Peace Line, for a while before I turn onto Glen Road, my street. As always, I was keeping well away from the cars on every street corner in case there was a bomb in one of them.

Then I heard something hit the metal on top of the Peace Line. As the wall is a good thirty feet high, I couldn’t see what was up there until it landed about ten feet ahead of me. I heard the tinkling of breaking glass and smelled petrol before the thing burst into a raging fireball.

I screamed, louder than I’ve ever screamed in my life. I didn’t look to see if I could spot any Volunteers on the other side. Instead, bent over and arms over my head, I bolted for Glen Road, running for my life away the Peace Line. I heard more clinking and rattling as three more Molotov cocktails came flying over the metal bars. Behind me were the shouts and screams of the poor people whose houses were right next door to the Volunteers’ fiery bombs.

Finally, like an oasis in the Sahara, I spotted the entrance to my street. I ran down it, heading for my house. Off in the Falls, I could hear the roar of the fire and the tinkling music of the broken glass.

As I threw myself at our front door, it flew open. Mum was standing there, her face white, and she pulled me into the house. “Thank God you’re safe,” she mumbled as she half-carried, half-dragged me down the hall. Through her arms, I could see Dad and my siblings in the sitting-room.

Dad jumped up and hugged me too. “We heard the bombs,” he said, and I was stunned to feel him shaking.

“Bloody UVF,” Padraig growled from my left.

Maebh reached up and tugged on my sleeve. “What happened, Brigid?” she asked.

I released myself from my parents’ clutches and sank onto the couch. My knees were weak. I could still hear shrieks and shattering off in the distance. “I was walking home,” I stammered, “And then the bombs came over from the other side of the Peace Line.”

“Are you hurt?” Dechtire asked anxiously.

I shook my head. Mum looked at me, tears in her eyes. “I saved you a cup of tea, love,” she said quietly, and she raced out of the room. Dad followed her.

I looked around at Padraig. His face was redder than my hair, and he was grinding his right fist into his left hand. “Those Volunteers had just better say their prayers,” he said quietly to me, glancing at the sitting-room door. “Next time I get near them, they’ll have hell to pay for trying to kill my sister.”  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

2 October 1971

As I was getting ready to go to work in Victoria Square this morning, I saw someone walk by my house that I’d never seen before. It was a young man, tall and lean like a willow tree, heading up Glen Road from the offshoot Glenhill Park. He was dressed in denim jeans, heavy work boots and a long, plain brown overcoat. He was dark, darker than anyone I’ve met: his rain-damp hair was thick and a beautiful shade of charcoal black. He looked confused, staring around Glen Road as if he’d never seen it before. And worst of all, I couldn’t see a rosary on him.

I don’t really know why I did it. Maybe it was my guess that this young man wasn’t Catholic and needed my help to get out before questions got asked. In any case, I picked up my things and ran out to him. His head turned at the sound of my running footsteps, and I swear I felt my heart stop for a moment. Never had I seen a man with eyes like that. They were dark brown and fierce, with long black eyelashes like a deer’s. Almost everyone I know has eyes in shades of blue like mine, or greenish grey. I felt like those eyes could look right through me and see my soul if he wanted them to.

“Good morning,” he said, a confused, shy smile creeping across his face. His voice was low and pleasant. Though he didn’t know it, his situation got worse as soon as I heard him talk. From his accent, I could tell that he was English. I didn’t answer, instead stepping under his umbrella, forcefully slipping my arm into his and dragging him forward. The new guy staggered and just about fell into the gutter.

“What the bloody hell – ” he started to shout.

“Shh!” I hissed. I beamed and waved at Mrs. Donavan, who was looking curiously out her sitting-room window at us. Through my grin, I muttered to my new companion, “Just shut up and act like you know me, like we’re good friends, right?”

He looked even more confused than he did when I ran out to him. “But who the hell are you?” he asked quietly.

I turned to him, putting my face close to his like young lovers do when they talk. His hair had a warm, spicy smell. I noticed that its jet-black color looked rather nice against my own dark red hair. I whispered in his ear, “That doesn’t matter right now. What does is this: you’re a Brit. And Protestant too, I assume?”

“Yeah.”

“Shit,” I muttered, looking around to make sure we were alone.

“Right. That’s a problem over here,” he said shortly.

“You’d better believe it, mister.” We’d reached the corner of Glen and the Falls. I could see the buildings at the city centre over the Peace Line’s bars, misty in the rain. “You going downtown?”

“To Donegall Quay.”

“Right.” I could go with him all the way to Victoria Street. I steered him onto the Falls, following the Peace Line towards Grosvenor Road. “Don’t you know this is a Catholic part of Belfast? If people here find out you’re a Brit and a Protestant on top of that, they’ll skin you alive.”

“Why?” he said, chuckling. “They can’t all be in the IRA, can they?”

“Shut it!” I said harshly, making him jump backwards into a puddle. “You looking for a beating or what?”

“All right, all right!” he snapped back, brushing the rainwater off of his coat.

“I’m trying to get you through here alive,” I said. “Just…please. Act normal.”

He shrugged and let me slip my arm back into his. “If you say so, love.” We didn’t talk for a while, until we turned onto Grosvenor. “Why are you protecting me?” he asked over the rush of the cars. “You don’t even know me.”

I sighed. “Enough people have died already. If I can stop one more, I will.”

There was another long quiet spell. We kept on walking as Grosvenor changed names, morphing into Howard Street, then Donegall Square by City Hall, then May Street. When we got to the corner of May and Victoria, I took my arm out of the stranger’s. “I need to let you go now. I’m going to Victoria Square. Think you can get to Donegall Quay on your own from here?”

He nodded. “It’s just one street over and then north,” he said shyly. “Thanks for walking with me. Good to have a bit of company, even if I don’t know her.”

“I’m Brigid O’Donnell,” I said. “Sometimes people call me Red Brigid.” I pointed at the sodden red waves hanging around my shoulders, and he laughed.

“Like Red Eva McMurrough,” he said.

I nodded. “What’s your name?”

“Sean McLaughlin.”

I gave a little start. “Say that again?” I said.

“My name’s Sean McLaughlin,” he repeated. “Something shocking about it?”

“Only because you’re…well…”

He grinned. “Didn’t expect an Englishman to have a name like that, did you?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “My brothers and sisters all have English names, but Dad’s Irish, so he wanted me to have an Irish name. You know, keep our roots here alive. Got to be an exception to the rule somewhere, right?”

I smiled back at him. “Yes, I suppose there has,” I said, holding out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sean.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Red Brigid.” We shook hands. He held on to my hand a bit longer than normal. For a minute he just looked at me with those strange dark brown eyes, half wary, half curious. Then he let go and started to walk down May Street. I stood and looked after Sean McLaughlin for a bit before I turned onto Victoria. I ended up crossing paths with him again at the end of the day, and I walked him back to Falls.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

10 October 1971

Sean McLaughlin’s kept walking back and forth to work with me. He and I always leave home and get out of work around the same time, so it would be silly for us to walk separately. I honestly think he likes the company. From what he’s told me, nobody else in the neighborhood’s welcomed the McLaughlins to Belfast. So I guess now it’s more of him having someone to talk to than being protected.

So far, no one’s asked me who the new boy is, though sometimes I see Dad and Padraig looking suspicious when I meet Sean to go to work. Someone’s going to ask about us sooner or later, I know it. Nothing can ever be kept a secret in Falls, because everyone’s always got their noses in everyone else’s business. I’m just glad nobody’s asked me any questions yet.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

14 October 1971

It’s funny…the more I talk to Sean, the more like me he seems. The McLaughlins moved to Belfast from a little farm outside of Southampton, where they were just as poor as my family. His father took a job in the shipyard. “We need to make some extra money,” Sean explained to me, “ ‘cause my dad likes his drink a little too much, you know what I mean.” At twenty, two years older than me, Sean’s the oldest in the family. He has five brothers and sisters, like me: George, the twins Karen and Katie, Andy and Bobby. He even wants to go to university and study to be a newspaper reporter, just like I do.

My parents never let me even go near any Brits. They call them dirty Oranges and tyrants, and tell me that I’d do well to never get myself mixed up with those people. And all my life, I’ve believed them! But Sean, the first British Protestant that I’ve ever really gotten to know, isn’t like that at all. Surely there must be other Brits as kind as he is, and Irish who are friends with them, though history says that our countries can’t ever get along?  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

18 October 1971

Oh, God. Please, God, help our family. The police came for Padraig tonight, and only your divine hand can get him and the others out of their grasp.

Last week, Liam got the bright idea to pull out the gun, the one that the Provos gave Padraig when he joined. Padraig keeps it under the floorboard with my journal. My little siblings all know full well that they’re not allowed to touch the gun or even talk about it. With Uncle Oisin and my cousins in jail, the Belfast police already know that the O’Donnells make trouble.

BUT, if you tell my little brother not to do something, he’ll make a point to go and do it anyway. He, Maebh and Finn got Padraig’s gun out, took it in the backyard and started fucking around with it. It got fired off accidentally, of course. When I heard the shot, I ran outside and pulled them back into the house, gun and all. That night, after everyone in the neighborhood was asleep, Dechtire, Padraig and I took the gun down to Falls Park and buried it under a pine tree. We had to, in case somebody saw the young ones and informed on them.

Someone must’ve done just that, because around one this morning I was awoken by the sound of my bedroom door crashing open. A tall, shadowy policeman loomed over Maebh, Dechtire and me, flicking the lights on and off and shouting, “Out of bed and downstairs! Now!”

Dechtire, Maebh and I all hurried downstairs. At least ten policemen were ripping our house to pieces right before our eyes. Mum, Dad, Padraig, Finn and Liam were all standing in the kitchen, blank looks on their faces as the police turned over chairs and threw cutlery out of the drawers as they searched. Upstairs and in the sitting-room, I could hear fabric ripping and clothes hitting the floor with dull flumps, and I knew they were tearing our mattresses and cushions open. Silently, I thanked God and all the saints that so far, the police hadn’t found the floorboard.

The chief of police came back into the kitchen from our sitting-room. Lumps of cotton stuffing from our sofa were stuck to his uniform, and his eyes were icy. “Mr. O’Donnell,” he said to Dad, “we know that there is a gun in this house. And we know that it belongs to your son, Patrick.”

“Padraig,” my brother snarled, but no one paid any attention.

“Oh?” growled Dad, his big hands clenched in fists. “And where do you get those rumors from, eh?”

“We have our sources,” snapped the chief. Then he smiled; he was missing two of his back teeth, I could see the gaps. “And if our information is indeed solely based on rumors, I’m sure you and your son will not object to a visit to our station for questioning.”

I felt a chill go up my spine. I’ve heard the stories about what the police call questioning, and I know what they do to the people they haul in.

The chief’s grin spread. “In fact, why don’t the other boys come with us? We were told that these two,” he pointed at Finn and Liam, “were the ones who actually fired the gun.”

“No!” cried Mum, hiding Liam and Finn behind her. “They’re just children! And anyway, there’s never been a gun in this house!” She sounded terrified, but convincing. Even in my state of fear, I had to admire how well Mum could lie.

“If that’s true, then your husband and sons have nothing to fear,” the chief said calmly.

I didn’t mean to say it, but it slipped out anyway in my anger: “Nothing to fear, my arse.”

Everyone in the room froze. The tension in the air seemed to make it hum as the chief of police stared at me, sizing me up. I glared back, faking a courage I didn’t feel. Then, to my surprise, he chuckled.

“This one’s certainly got a redhead’s spirit!” he said. “And what would your name be?”

“Brigid,” I said stiffly.

“A true fiery arrow you are, love,” he said, grinning. He reached over and patted me on the cheek, brushing away a stray lock of my hair. His hand stayed on my cheek just a little too long for my liking.

I pulled my head away angrily. “I’m very sorry, officer, but I have to insist that you keep your hands off me.”

He laughed again and then called to the men in the rest of the house, “All right, lads! We’re taking O’Donnell and the three boys in!”

The police all crowded into the kitchen and grabbed all the men of our house: Dad, Padraig, Liam and even little Finn. I watched as their hands were forced behind their backs and cuffs put on their wrists. Then, my father and brothers were all marched out the front door. “No!” I heard myself screaming. “Padraig! Finn! Liam!” I started to run to the door, towards the flashing lights outside in front of our house, but Mum and Dechtire held me back.

“Don’t, Brigid,” Mum said softly, but I kept struggling anyway.

“Bastards!” I screamed at the door. “Fucking, fucking _bastards!” ___

“Brigid, quiet!” Mum cried, clapping a hand over my mouth. She and Dechtire hauled me back into the sitting-room and plopped me down on the one cushion left on the gutted sofa.

“It’s no use,” Dechtire said softly. There were tears in her eyes, streaming down her pale face. “You’ll only get them all into more trouble.”

“Daddy,” Maebh said quietly. I turned around to see that she was crying too. I realized then that I had to be strong for her, for my little sister.

“They’ll…they’ll be back soon,” I said, my voice cracking as I picked her up and put her on my lap. “We can wait for them here.”

Mum and Dechtire sat down on the other cushions, lying deflated on the floor. The room glittered with broken glass from when the police overturned our table. Absentmindedly, Dechtire picked up a handful of stuffing and started ripping it apart. I ran back upstairs to check on my typewriter and journal. The secret floorboard hadn’t been moved. I breathed another prayer of thanks when I saw the typewriter with my name on it still sitting on my desk, unhurt.

Hours later, the three of us are still in the sitting-room. Maebh’s long since fallen asleep, her little blond head in Dechtire’s lap. None of us have said anything since the raid ended. The only sound in the room since the police took Dad, Liam, Finn and Padraig away has been the mad clicking and dinging of my typewriter.

Please, God, protect them. Protect my father and my brothers, and send them home to us alive. That’s all we ask.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

19 October 1971

Mum and I agreed to pretend that everything’s normal, so I had to stay home with Maebh today while Mum went to Scott O’Hara’s to work and Dechtire went to school. We stayed in the house, playing board games and reading together. All day I had to keep my panic inside, hidden from Maebh. I didn’t want to scare her even more than she already is. But sick images of Dad and my brothers, trapped inside the police station, kept breaking into my mind all day.

After supper, we all sat back down on the ripped sofa. Mum tried to knit, but she couldn’t stop herself from glancing towards the front door every few minutes. Dechtire was looking over her maths book, but I could see that her blue eyes weren’t moving. I hauled out my typewriter, but couldn’t think of anything to say, so I wound up just staring at the keys. Maebh, who was reading from Dad’s old book of poems in Irish, seemed to be the only really calm one of us.

Then we heard the front lock turning. Mum jumped up from the sofa, sending her knitting flying, and ran into the front hall. Maebh, Dechtire and I followed her. We got to the front door in time to see Mum throwing herself into Dad’s arms. “Diarmuid!” she was sobbing. “Boys! Oh, thank God, thank God – ”

Dad, Padraig, Liam and Finn all made their way through to the sitting-room. I wanted to hug and kiss all of them, but horror kept me away. Every single one of their faces, even Finn’s, was covered in bruises. Angry red welts, probably from a rubber truncheon, dotted their arms. Liam’s nose and mouth looked as if they’d been bleeding. Padraig’s lot was worst: he had bruises and dried blood on the side of his face, and he was limping. As I came to hug him, he groaned and pulled away. “Padraig, what is it?” I said shakily.

“They punched me in the kidneys,” he said, wincing as I stepped back from him. When he saw the look on my face, he tried to smile and said, “Don’t worry, Brigid, I’ll be fine.”

“Not after I’m through with you.” Mum was glaring at Padraig. “You can all go upstairs to clean up and rest, but Padraig, your father and I need to have a word with you tomorrow.” And on that mysterious note, we all traipsed upstairs to our beds.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

21 October 1971

Well, Mum had her row with Padraig tonight. Needless to say, Dechtire and I snuck into the stairwell to listen as soon as we got the young ones in the bath. Raised voices reached our ears the minute we got to the top of the stairs. Padraig was saying, “Mum, I’m not going to let some pathetic coppers scare me away!”

“Pathetic,” Mum repeated in her deadliest voice. “You call this pathetic? You call what they did to Finn, _an eight-year-old, _pathetic? You may think you’re doing Northern Ireland a favor, Padraig, but your being in the Provos is putting all of us in danger!”__

“We’d be in even more danger if the Provos didn’t exist!” Padraig shouted, banging his fist on the table. I heard Mum’s little glass tabby cat fall to the floor. “You know how the Brits have treated us in the past. I mean, the Volunteers fight just like we do, and do you see any of those bastards locked up and beaten to pulp? The official IRA’s peaceful protesting isn’t enough anymore. The Provos are the only ones with enough balls to stand up for us, for Catholics, and fight for our rights!”

“That doesn’t mean that you have to take that battle on yourself,” cried Mum. “Not if fighting it means that your family will get hurt!”

“Perhaps your mother is right, son,” murmured Dad. “I’m not saying I don’t admire the Provos for their courage, but maybe they could do without your help.”

“But Dad – ”

“No buts! You are to leave that goddamn gun buried just where it is, Padraig Pearse O’Donnell,” Mum ordered. “And there’ll be hell if I see you hanging around with your Provos friends again!”

“I’ll make sure you don’t see me, then,” snarled Padraig. Dechtire and I darted backwards into our room as our big brother’s heavy footsteps fell on the stairs. He was clearly ignoring Mum’s shouts for him to come back. Padraig’s bedroom door slammed, and an awful ringing silence followed it.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

25 October 1971

Even though I’ve been back to work in the past few days, I hadn’t seen Sean for a little while. It proved pretty lonely, walking to work by myself in the rain. Luckily, today he was back, but he looked a little pale as I came up to him. “Hi, Red Brigid,” he said, smiling at me.

“Morning, Sean,” I said, slipping my arm into his as usual. “Where’ve you been?”

“My little brother Bobby got a cold in school, and then I got it,” he said, sniffing heartily. When I edged away a bit, he laughed and said, “Don’t worry yourself about it, love, I’m not contagious anymore.” After another short pause in which we turned left on the Falls, he said, “But I wanted to ask you where you’ve been.”

My heart stopped for a minute. “What’re you on about?” I asked, lowering my head so that my hair fell over my face, hiding it. I knew what he meant. Surely the news about the raid had gotten through the entire neighborhood. A second later, Sean proved me right.

“I heard that the police came through your street about a week ago, and then you were missing from our walk for a couple days before I got sick,” he said. “Is everything all right? ‘Cause if it’s not, and you need someone to talk to, you can tell me.”

I hesitated. For one wild moment I thought about telling him everything. I thought of the gun buried under the pine tree in Falls Park. I remembered the chief of police’s hand lingering on my face. Images of Dad and my brothers covered in bruises and blood came rushing back. I thought of how Padraig had sworn to stay in the Provos and of my mother’s angry words…

“No,” I said, looking down Grosvenor as we turned again. “No, everything’s fine…”  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

1 November 1971

I lost my temper with Sean this morning on the way to Victoria Square. Last night there was a bit of a skirmish between the UVF and Padraig’s section of the Provos over in St. Meryl Park, on the other side of the A55. I could hear the guns going off even over the traffic sounds. Thanks to God Padraig wasn’t there; he still hasn’t dug the gun back up yet.

Sean and his family must’ve heard the fight too in Glenhill Park. When I walked out to meet him this morning, the first thing he said was, “Did you hear those gunshots over in St. Meryl’s last night?”

“ ‘Course I did,” I said quietly, after looking around to make sure no one was listening to us. “They were two streets down and one over from my house, how could I not hear them?” I thought about mentioning Padraig, but I didn’t dare. I don’t think Sean would turn our family over to the police, but you never know around here.

He sighed as we walked up Glen Road together, heading for the Falls. “How do you live with that?” he asked me. “I mean, gunshots practically outside your front door…”

“I’m used to it.” Even I could hear the sadness in my own voice. “You’ll be too, soon enough. That’s just how life is in Belfast.”

“You shouldn’t have to be used to it,” Sean said as we turned out onto the Falls.

I don’t quite know what made me so mad about that comment. Whatever it was, it made me yank my arm out of his and glare at him. The breeze caught my hair; out the corner of my eye, it looked like dark red flames. “What’d I say?” he said, staring at me.

“Nothing,” I snapped.

Sean didn’t let this one word stop him. “You’re obviously pissed about something,” he said evenly. “So why don’t you be up front about it? Spit it out.”

“Fine, then, I’ll spit it out,” I snarled. “Of course you’d say I shouldn’t have to be used to violence. You’re English. You know nothing about what we go through here, you hear me? _Nothing.” ___

“Well, then, perhaps you’ll be kind enough to enlighten me,” Sean said with a bite in his voice.

“Don’t,” I spat at him. I waved my arm at the street, at the run-down Catholic houses and the Peace Line we were standing next to, the metal-topped wall that represents all of our problems. “You see this?” I asked. When he didn’t answer, I snarled, “Well? Do you?”

“Yeah.”

“This is why the Provos shoot,” I said furiously. “Peaceful begging for our rights isn’t enough for Irish Catholics anymore. Your unionist government won’t listen, so that’s the only way for Catholics to have a say in anything at all.”

“I see,” said Sean, his voice colder than I’d ever heard it. “So you’re saying that bullets and car bombs and whatever shit the IRA pulls is the way for Irish Catholics to get respect?”

“It sure as hell has been the only way we’ve gotten any freedoms up till now,” I retorted.

“But only ‘cause they scared the opposition into it!” he said, his voice rising. “Brigid, do you honestly think that republicans and the Irish are the only ones who’ve paid for these problems with their lives? Do you think that any of the dead’s families are likely to support the Provos’ cause?”

Next thing I knew, I was screaming at him. “YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!” I shrieked. “YOU’RE A – ”

Before I could say “Brit,” Sean clamped his hand over my mouth. I tried to throw him off, but he was too strong.

“Are you mental?” he hissed at me over the cars driving by. “What’re you trying to do, get me killed?”

“Get off me!” I spat at him through his hand. “Sean McLaughlin, get your fucking hands off me!” He didn’t listen.

“Who says these problems up here don’t affect British people as much as they do the Irish?” Sean demanded. “Who says we don’t feel them as much as you do? In fact, I think we feel them more!”

I finally managed to throw his hand off of my mouth. I gave him a death glare, putting as much poison in my voice as I could when I said, “How dare you.”

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I dare,” he snarled at me. “Did you know my mum got spat on and called a whore by an old lady in a store yesterday, because the lady saw her with Dad and could hear her accent? Did you know my little brothers get kicked around at school because they don’t wear rosaries? And nobody’s welcomed any of us to Belfast except for you. My country isn’t the only one at fault here, Brigid.”

The fury in his eyes made my own anger calm down a little. “It’s all just so confusing,” I muttered. We made the turn onto Grosvenor, crossing the street to avoid a parked red car on our side of the road. “If the Brits in Parliament would just give Catholics the rights we deserve – ”

“But if it’s the government’s fault, why are innocent people from both sides paying for it?” Sean asked.

I thought about that for a long time. Finally I looked up at him and admitted what everyone wants to say, but that no one does: “I don’t know.”  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

6 November 1971

I was sitting up in my room late this afternoon, trying to think of something to type, when Padraig came in. He had a funny look in his eyes, a sort of desperate, angry look. “Padraig, what’s wrong?” I asked, pushing my typewriter away a bit and turning to face him.

He plunked himself down on my bed, his rosary bouncing on his broad chest. “If you say anything about what I’m going to tell you, I’ll kill you,” he growled. “You hear me?”

I sighed. “Is this about the Provos again?”

“Damned sure it is.” He glanced about for a minute. “I can’t not be part of them, Brigid,” he said, and I could still see the shadow of the bruises from the interrogation on his face. “You saw what the coppers did to us. They would’ve done more if they could find any proof that we had a gun in the house.” His face darkened.

“And the officials who could help us are on the side of the unionists and the Protestants,” I recited. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve heard it said.

Padraig nodded. “The loyalists have all the Brits in the government in their pockets. None of them give a shit about us Catholics here in Northern Ireland, about our rights, so we have a God-given duty to make them give one.” He took a deep breath and looked at the door again, to check if any of our siblings were coming in. “There’s a raid on the Ulster Volunteers’ headquarters tomorrow night. I’m going to dig the gun back up tonight and hide it in here again.”

“What about Mum and Dad? Even Dad says he doesn’t want you to fight anymore,” I reminded him.

Padraig gave a half laugh. “Fuck them,” he snarled. “They just don’t see that what I’m doing, what the Provos are doing, will help everyone in the end.”

“But how long will we have to fight until the end? And how many people, innocent or not, have to die for it?” I asked a little desperately. I remembered Sean asking similar questions only five days before.

For the first time during our chat, Padraig looked a little sad. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. But then he took my hand, and the anger came back to his face. “But sometimes you have to make sacrifices for the greater good. If it means freedom, equality and a united Ireland, I’m willing to make those sacrifices.”

“Even of your own family?” I said quietly. When he didn’t answer, I sighed. “You know I love you, Padraig, and I support the IRA’s ideas,” I told him. “But they may be going about it the wrong way.”

“What the hell’s made you change your mind?” he barked, glaring at me. I didn’t say a word; there was no way I was telling him that I’ve been walking to and from work with a British Protestant. When I didn’t answer, he said dangerously. “Well, I think there’s an answer, and that answer’s buried in Falls Park. I’m helping the Provos whether you and our parents like it or not, and you’d better keep your mouth shut about it.”

And with that, he stomped out of the room, making the floorboards shiver.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

10 November 1971

Another car bomb got set off in Victoria Square yesterday. I know it was Padraig this time, because he clambered through the bedroom window in the middle of the night with his gun. He smelled of gun smoke and had pieces of glass in his hair. When he saw I was awake, he growled, “Mouth shut, Brigid.” One might say it’s stupid to be afraid of one’s own brother, but I sure as hell was afraid of him then.

This morning I met Sean along the route to work as usual. My heart sank as I looked up at him: I could see another bruise on his face. He still smiled at me, though. “Good morning, Red Brigid,” he said quietly as I slipped my arm in his. He always calls me that.

“Morning,” I said. The wind toyed with my hair, tossing it one direction and then in the complete opposite direction a moment later. I hate tangles, but what I hate even more is tying my hair up and forcing it to behave. I glanced nervously at the bruise again. “So how’re things at your house?”

His smile turned into more of a grimace. “How do things look like they’re going?” he asked, pointing at his cheek.

“Well…bad.”

“That’s about right,” he said. We turned onto the Falls, protected from the wind just a bit by the Peace Line. About the only thing it’s good for, really, a windbreaker. “Dad’s still drinking a lot,” he mumbled. “Last night he tried to hit Andy for not finishing his peas. I stepped in.”

“You’re brave, Sean,” I said. “Your dad’s using you as a punching bag.”

“You wouldn’t’ve stood it either,” he growled. “Anyway, it’s just a matter of time until I can save enough money to go to university in Dublin and get out.” He gave a deep sigh and brushed his hair back with one hand. “But how about you, love?” he asked as we approached the corner of the Falls and Grosvenor. “How’re things going for you?”

I was just going to say “fine,” but something came over me. “My brother Padraig went on a bombing raid last night,” I heard myself blurt out.

Whatever Sean was expecting, it wasn’t that. He spun around so fast that he almost fell into the puddle of filthy water in the street. “He _what?” _he cried.__

I swear, it felt like a stranger had overtaken my body. I listened as my mouth spilled all of my family’s secrets. I told Sean how my uncle and cousins were in jail for being in the IRA. I told him about Padraig’s gun and how he and my father and other brothers had been beaten up during interrogation. I told him about Mum’s forbidding Padraig to stay in the Provos, and how he was still working with them anyway.

“And worst of all, he’s my brother!” I spluttered as we reached the edge of Boyne Court. “My own big brother is hurting innocent people and getting the rest of our family caught up in all this shit! What am I supposed to say to him about that?”

Sean stared at me for a long time. I could tell that he was more shocked than he was letting on. Then he finally said, “I don’t know, Brigid. I don’t really know if there are any answers to this mess. I mean, the Troubles kind of go back hundreds of years, don’t they?”

“I guess,” I sighed. “And I guess if we haven’t found a solution to them by now, we won’t ever find one.”

“Or maybe we’re getting there, and it just took us a while,” Sean suggested softly.

“Maybe.” I looked up into his dark eyes. As usual, they gave off a mysterious, deep sort of feeling. It never fails to amaze me how beautiful I find the eyes of a Black Irishman, no matter how many times I see them. “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I said, fear rippling through me. “What I told you about Padraig and my family?”

Sean smiled. “Brigid, do you honestly think I’d do that?”

I smiled back. “No, I don’t. But I had to make sure.”

We’d come all the way to Victoria Street without even realizing it as we talked. I looked down the street. “I’d better go,” I said. “We both need to get to work.”

“Yeah. See you later.” I watched his tall, thin figure winding its way down May Street for a little bit before I went on my own way.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

12 November 1971

Sean decided to be bold today. He walked me home from work, as always. This time, though, he saw me to my front door. Normally he just stands in the street until I go in the house. “Let me walk you up,” he told me, taking my hand as I tried to walk away.

I hesitated. “My family can’t see you,” I whispered to him. “They’ll be asking funny questions if they see you.”

“I’m not scared of what your family thinks,” he said as we came toward the house.

“Well, I am.” I looked into the windows, trying to see if anyone was near them. When I didn’t see anyone, I said, “Okay, the coast is clear. But you need to get lost before I go in.”

He sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to hide like this,” he said as I put my key in the lock. “There’s nothing wrong with a boy walking a girl to and from work.”

I felt my heart shrivel up. “But according to my family, there’s something wrong with it if the boy’s a Brit,” I told him. “Leave. Now.”

“All right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Red Brigid.” Sean gave me a fleeting smile and turned back onto our street to go home. I let myself into the house and acted normal as Maebh and Finn charged around the corner, demanding that I play with them.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

18 November 1971

Well, Sean and I hung on for as long as we could. I’m amazed we made it this far without anyone asking me questions, but now the cat’s out of the bag.

Sean’s kept walking me right to the door for the past couple of days. I’d thought that we’d gotten away with it without anyone in the house noticing. Tonight, though, I was proven wrong. Padraig came up to see me in my room as I sat at the desk, reading. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend, Brigid,” he said as soon as he walked in.

You have to hand it to Padraig; he doesn’t beat around the bush. I spun around and said, “What makes you say that?”

He sat on the bed. “I saw a boy walking you to the door.”

“Shit,” I muttered, turning back to the window. He heard me.

“Why?” he asked, grinning. “You haven’t told Mum and Dad yet, have you?”

“No, and I don’t plan to.”

“Well, can you tell me about him?”

I closed my eyes, trying to keep calm. What could I possibly tell him? I didn’t think that Sean being my walking companion would spare him my brother’s anger. Then I decided on the truth…a little of it. “He’s someone I met walking to work. We go to and from our jobs together.”

“What’s his name?” Padraig asked, stretching out on the bed.

“Sean.”

He looked over at me. “You’re being awfully vague, you know,” he said.

“Well, I’m not hiding anything.” I realized too late that my comment was as good as a confession. I saw Padraig’s face darken before I turned back around. Then he asked the question I’d been dreading.

“He’s a Brit, isn’t he?”

I sighed. It looked like I wasn’t going to get out of this one. I turned to face Padraig in my chair, and his face was a strange mix of paper white and blotchy red. “Fine,” I grumbled. “Yes, Sean’s English and Protestant. Got a problem with that?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do,” Padraig growled. “So that’s where you’ve been getting these ideas into your head about the IRA being wrong. Well, I think you should stay away from the Protestant loyalist bastard.”

I stood up. “Sean isn’t a bastard,” I said, my voice shaking. I spoke quietly, but I felt like I was roaring as loud as ten lions. “And anyways, you don’t even know him. How do you know he’s a loyalist?”

“All Brits are.”

“How would you know that?” I spat at him.

Padraig stood up too. He’s a lot taller and wider than me, but I wasn’t backing down. “I’ve got a question for you,” he spat back. “How do you know you can trust him? How do you know this Sean isn’t a spy for the UVF or the police and using you to keep an eye on us?”

“He’d never do that.” I was as certain of it as I am of my own name. “Never. Even if he knew about us, he’d never turn us in to anybody.”

Padraig seemed to teeter on the edge of speech. His face was redder than it had been ever before. Finally he spoke, and every word seemed dragged out of him like thorns. “Right,” he said, breathing heavily through his nose. “You can make your own choices. I can’t stop you. But if I notice anything funny about this Sean boy, any little thing that might even hint he’s informing on us, I’ll beat the shit out of him.”

“You’ll have to beat the shit out of me first.” I stalked out of my room, slamming the door as I went.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

22 November 1971

When I left my house this morning for work, Sean was waiting for me in the street. I ran out to him, but as soon as I got near him I could see that something was wrong. His face was drawn and pale in the early morning light. There were purplish shadows under his eyes, and when I came up to him, he didn’t smile and wish me a good morning like he usually does. The second I got near him, he put his arms around me and pulled me close to him.

“Brigid,” he muttered distractedly. “Oh, God, Brigid.” He shuddered, bent down and started to sob into my shoulder. I was scared. Never, not once in the two months I’ve known him, have I seen him cry. He doesn’t strike me as the type.

“Oh, no,” I murmured, hugging him tighter. “Sean, what is it? What’s wrong?”

He gulped and shook his head. Strands of our hair, mingled dark red and black, were stuck to his face. Finally he managed words. “Katie – my little sister – ” he gasped.

I felt a chill zip up my spine. “What’s happened to her?” I whispered. But I knew what the answer would likely be.

Sean moaned and clung so tight to me that all the breath was squeezed out of me. “She’s…she’s dead,” he stammered. Then he threw back his head, his hair flying in the wind, and let out a terrible, wordless wail of grief.

“Come with me,” I said softly, taking his hand. Sean let me lead him out of Falls like a shepherd leading a stray lamb. I don’t know how he would’ve gotten out of my part of town if I hadn’t been there to help him, he was crying so hard. We finally stopped down at the ferry terminal off of Donegall Quay, where I sat him on a bench at the end of the pier. The Belfast-to-Liverpool ferry was just coming in through the hazy rain.

I sat beside him on the bench. “Tell me what happened,” I said quietly. When he shook his head and continued to cry silently, I squeezed his hand. “Please, Sean.”

Slowly, painfully, I got the story out of him. Yesterday afternoon, four of Sean’s siblings had been coming home from school: Andy (10), the twins Karen and Katie (14) and little Bobby (8). The two boys met the twins between St. Dominic’s, the girls’ school, and St. Peter’s Primary School. When they reached the junction between the Falls and Beechmount Drive, a bomb in a small black van parked on the roadside exploded, killing ten people and injuring twenty-seven. By all likelihood, local members of the Provos put it there, in response to an attack from the UVF last week. I just hope Padraig didn’t have anything to do with it. Katie McLaughlin was one of the ten killed, and Karen and Andy are in the hospital. Bobby wasn’t hurt, because Karen pushed her brothers to the ground and laid on top of them to try and protect them.

After Sean’s story ended, I was crying with him. “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

He laughed a cold, empty laugh. “You’re sorry,” he repeated thickly, wiping his nose on his coat sleeve. “That’s all you can say, is it?”

“What the fuck else can I say?” I cried, leaping to my feet. Sean stood too, and there was a wild, angry fire in his eyes. But I was even angrier. “I didn’t kill your sister. Did I put that bomb there?” “No,” he growled, tears still glittering on his cheeks. He came toward me furiously, but I stood my ground. “But your brother Padraig could’ve for all I – ”

“SHUT IT!” I screamed at him. Next thing I knew, my hand had flown at his face and slapped him on the cheek. He staggered backwards, groaning in pain, for just a moment before he lunged at me. He grabbed me and pinned my arms to my sides with one arm, and his other hand forced my head around so that I looked right into his dark, wet eyes. I wasn’t that scared, just angry and wanting nothing more than to see him hurt. I grinned up at him like a madwoman.

“Hit me, then. Go on,” I egged him on, “hit me! I know you want to, so we might as well do this thing properly!”

Sean let go of me and stared at me for a long time. For a minute, I really thought he was going to hit me: his hands were curled up in fists, and his jaws were making a funny chewing movement, as if he was trying to swallow his own anger. His entire body was shaking. I stared back at him, noticing that there was a big red mark on his face where I’d slapped him. In that moment, I didn’t really feel sorry.

But then he staggered away from me. He actually gripped his hair with his hands; honestly, he looked quite mad. “No,” he gasped. “No. It won’t change anything. She’s gone…gone…”

Sean collapsed on the concrete by the bench, shaking with fresh sobs. As I looked down at him, I felt pity and regret come crashing down on me. I knew he hadn’t really meant the things he’d said and done; he never would’ve dreamed of saying or doing them on a normal day. After all, people talk a little madly when they’re grieving. My anger slowly drained away as I knelt down beside him and laid a hand on his back. “I’m sorry, Sean,” I said, my eyes swimming with tears and my voice cracking with guilt. “I shouldn’t have – ”

But I never got to finish. Sean threw his head up to look at me, and I saw something more than rage and grief in the dark eyes. With one hand at my back and one in my hair, he drew me to him and kissed me. I could feel our tears mingling on our faces.

When Sean separated from me, he shook his head as he looked at me. A breeze from the ocean lifted our hair, blowing it back towards the city. The red and black together looked like fire and smoke. He put a hand on my cheek. “This is a fucked-up world, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” I said. I touched his face too, wiping his eyes with my thumbs. “But that doesn’t mean we have to be fucked-up too, does it?”

“I’d like to think so.” He held me against his chest again, stroking my hair. “Brigid, I love you,” he whispered in my ear.

“I love you too, Sean.” Even as I said it I wondered what my family would say if they heard, especially Padraig. But as I looked in his eyes, I realized I didn’t give two shits. I didn’t even give one shit.

“The wake is tonight,” he said, his eyes dampening again. “I’d really appreciate it if you could come. I don’t think I could stand it without you.”

“I’ll try,” I promised. “But won’t your family take ill to me? I mean, I’m named after a saint. They’ll know I’m Catholic and they’ll figure I’m a republican.”

“If anyone says a word against you, I’ll pound them through the floor.”

I forced a smile. “Let’s hope you won’t need to do that,” I sighed. “I’ll be there.”

He brushed his lips along my cheek. “Thank you,” he whispered. After a moment, he said, “Do you think we should go to work? It’s ten after nine, we’ll be pretty late.”

I shook my head. “Fuck it,” I said, and Sean grimaced. “Let’s just stay here.”

So Sean slipped his arm around my waist, and I put mine across the small of his back. We sat on that bench for the rest of the day. We didn’t really say much, just sat there, watching the ships and people come and go. I think it was the first time a British Protestant and an Irish Catholic ever sat together in peace on the docks of Belfast.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

24 November 1971

As Sean asked me to, I went to Katie’s wake last night. I put my hair back in a braid for the occasion, just this once. Never in my life have I seen anything so sad. When we went into the house, the first thing we saw was the coffin lying in the sitting-room. I couldn’t stop myself from gasping. It was a lot smaller than I expected. Sean hadn’t let go of my hand since we walked in, and I could feel it shaking. I did the sign of the cross over the coffin lid.

I looked behind me at Sean, wondering if he’d be angry with me for signing the cross over his Protestant sister. But no: he managed half a smile at me, his cheeks shining with tears. He held me close to him, and all he said was, “Thank you.”

“Where’s your family?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“Through here.” Sean led me down a short hallway into the kitchen. A small crowd of people welcomed us. Sitting on the lap of an older woman who might be Sean’s grandmother was a boy who looked about Finn’s age. He was crying with his thumb in his mouth. He reminded me so much of Finn that I thought, _This could’ve been my family. ___

“Hello, Sean,” said another woman. She wore a black veil over her face and her voice had a flat, nasal sound to it. Another boy, one who looked about ten or eleven, sat on the floor beside her. That must be Sean’s mother and Andy. “Who’s your friend?”

Sean glanced down at me, and I nodded at him. He wrapped his arm protectively around my shoulders before he answered. “Everyone, this is Brigid O’Donnell. We walk to and from work together.”

As soon as he said my name, the tension in the room went up. Even through the veil, I could see that Mrs. McLaughlin was pursing her lips. The man next to her, black-haired and tall like Sean, got to his feet. Mr. McLaughlin must’ve been drinking for a long time already: his brown eyes were a bit unfocused as he looked at me, and he had to leave one hand on the kitchen table to support himself. “Brigid?” he said furiously, slurring my name. “Brigid? How dare you bring a republican into my house, boy!”

He staggered towards us, an empty bottle of whiskey in his meaty hand. Sean dodged the blow from the bottle, bending over me to protect my head from his father.

“Jack,” Mrs. McLaughlin said angrily. At the sound of his wife’s voice, Mr. McLaughlin backed off a little, a look like a hunted bear on his ruddy face. Sean straightened up, standing tall and proud like an ancient Celtic hero, and glared at him.

“She’s not a republican. She doesn’t have anything to do with that,” he said evenly, though I could feel him shaking with anger. I admired his lying ability. “I asked her to be here.”

“What for? So she can laugh at how her precious Provos murdered your sister?” sneered Mr. McLaughlin. “I’ll be damned if that piece of filth stays here with us tonight!”

“Give the devil my regards, then, ‘cause Brigid isn’t going anywhere,” Sean said coldly.

“Sean, it’s all right,” I said to him, seeing how fast Mr. McLaughlin’s face was turning even redder. “I really can go, it’s not a problem – ”

“No.” The deadly calm in his voice scared me almost as much as Mr. McLaughlin. He made me look up into his dark eyes, so like those of his father, and said, “You’re not leaving, Brigid…my love.” He added the last two words almost as an afterthought, and then he bent his head and kissed me in full view of his family.

Before I registered the scandalized gasps coming from the rest of the family, I felt Sean being pulled away from me. Mr. McLaughlin had seized his son by the hair and dragged him from my arms, breaking the kiss. Roaring in anger, he threw Sean to the floor and gave him a kick in the face. The women, including me, screamed; Sean groaned and curled up on the floor in an attempt to protect himself, hands over his face.

“Jack!” cried Mrs. McLaughlin. She leapt from her chair and tried to push Mr. McLaughlin away from Sean as he staggered back to his feet. She was so small against him that the contrast would’ve been funny if it weren’t for the situation. “Jack, that’s enough!”

“That little slut’ll get out of my house!” yelled Mr. McLaughlin. With a huge sweep of his arm, he sent the table crashing to the floor, drinks and food and all. Everyone around the table ducked out of his way, the two little boys running clear out of the kitchen. “She’ll get out, Sean, or you’re both going!”

Sean put his hands down. I could see blood streaming from a cut above his right eye. “Fine,” he said, taking my hand. “C’mon, Brigid.” We turned, and just as we started to walk away the empty whiskey bottle shattered against the wall over our heads.

“Run!” Sean cried, and both of us split. We didn’t stop running for a long time. Neither of us knew where we were going; we just let our feet take us there. When we finally stopped, I saw that we’d run all the way to the Ann Street Bridge. We clambered down the embankment to sit at the edge of the River Lagan. As we passed under a lamplight up on the bridge, I gasped: Sean’s right eye was swelled up and shut tight from where his father had kicked him. An ugly bluish-grey bruise was blooming around it, and the cut above it was still bleeding gently.

“Sean,” I whispered, touching the spot. My hand was shaking. “Oh, Sean – ”

He shivered in the cold wind, drawing me close to him. “It’ll be all right,” he mumbled, wiping the blood from his eye with his coat sleeve. “Not like I’ve never gone through this sort of thing before.”

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart…”

“No, I’m sorry,” he said kindly, taking my hand. “I should never have brought you there when I knew Dad would be like that.” Then he bent down and kissed me there underneath the bridge as cars swished by above us. Somewhere off in the distance, I heard the ferry’s horn, a lonely, haunting note hidden in the fog.

“I love you,” Sean whispered. I shivered inside as I felt his lips touch my neck. “I love you more than anything else in this world, and nobody can ever make me change my mind.”

“I love you too, Sean.” We sat down together at the base of the bridge, and I kicked off my shoes. Sean moved a bit so that he was sitting behind me, and I felt him pull the band holding my hair together out. I shivered again: he was combing his hands through the long, dark red waves, undoing the braid. Then he pushed it all over my left shoulder and kissed my neck again, wrapping his arm around my waist at the same time.

I let out a funny sound, a sort of shaky sigh-moan thing that I’ve never heard come out of my mouth. I reached up and put a hand on his head, pulling him closer. My other hand held his, the one resting just under my stomach. “Mmm…That feels so good, Sean…” I murmured.

“Brigid…” he groaned. I stroked his hair, letting it fall softly through my fingers, feeling a bit lightheaded with happiness. “Oh, Brigid, I love you so much…” I felt his hands start to move up towards my chest, and I felt terror go thundering through me as I realized what he wanted. But the fear was nothing, nothing at all, compared to the funny burning feeling I had in my heart as he touched me…

And I can’t say what we did. I’ve never, ever been so ashamed of myself…and yet, nothing I’ve ever done has felt as good as what Sean and I did last night. Well, all I can do is wait for Mum and Dad to ask me where I was, and I’ll be fucked.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

25 November 1971

Well, so far my parents haven’t said anything. I know Mum knows I didn’t come home the night before last, but it’s her tactic to spring questions on me when I least expect them. While I’m waiting for the hurricane to hit, I might as well write about yesterday morning. I must’ve forgotten to do that when I was talking about the wake.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to find my head lying on Sean’s chest. Seagulls flew over our heads, and I could hear the river rushing behind me. I still hadn’t remembered exactly what we’d done, I guess because I was still half asleep. Instead of waking him up like I should’ve done, I rubbed my eyes and looked up at him.

Sean was still lying on his back, fast asleep. His chest rose and fell evenly as he breathed. His black hair fell softly around his face, except for a lock that fell over his bruised eye. I brushed it away, and he shifted a bit in his sleep, a smile creeping onto his face.

“I love you,” I whispered in his ear. I watched him for a minute, remembering the tenderness of his touch and kisses the night before.

The night before…

Understanding hit me like a freight train. I swear to God I felt my heart sinking as I realized that I hadn’t gone home. Everything came rushing back: Katie’s coffin, Mr. McLaughlin kicking Sean, us running down to this bridge, where we…I can’t even say it. We must’ve fallen asleep afterward. My parents would finally know about us.

“Oh, shit,” I muttered, rolling off of Sean and scrambling around for my shoes. Bits of my hair got blown into my mouth, and I spat them out. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“God, Brigid.” I whirled around to see Sean stretching lazily, smiling up at me. “You talk like a sailor.”

“To hell with language!” I snapped back at him, tugging my damp socks back on. “We fell asleep here!”

“Mmm. That’s not all we did, love,” he said sleepily, sitting up and wrapping his arms around me. His lips brushed the side of my neck just as they’d done last night. Then he sighed and added, “Damn, you were good. You sure that was your first time?”

“Christ.” I pushed his arms away and tied my shoe. My whole body shivered as I thought about what we’d done. But what scared me even more was knowing that the shivers weren’t only due to fear. “Neither of us went home last night, we’re still under the Ann Street Bridge.”

For a minute, he just seemed confused. Then he gasped and let me go. “Fuck,” he muttered, half laughing as he sprang to his feet. “Oh, fuck – ”

“That’s right.” I put my hands over my face, trying not to remember how kind and gentle he’d been, how his every touch had sent a beautiful tingling through my body like soft, electrifying waves. I heard an annoying little voice in the back of my head asking how a sin could feel so good. “How’re we going to get out of this one? We’re both fucked, you and me.”

To my astonishment, he grinned a bit. “Damned straight,” he said.

“Will you stop reminding me?” I shrieked. I actually grabbed the sides of my own head, ready to tear my hair out in shame. “We might as well jump in the Lagan and do ourselves in, spare our parents the trouble! What’ll we do?”

Sean helped me to my feet. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But no matter what, nothing and nobody can keep me away from you.” With that, he led me home. Not being hysterical when I got there was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

26 November 1971

Still nothing. I walked to work with Sean again, and neither of us talked much. I was busy thinking about what we’d done by the Ann Street Bridge, about what might happen as a result of it. I shuddered at the thought of what my dad and Padraig would do to him if it did come to pass. All I can do is pray to God and all his saints and angels that it won’t. Thankfully I’ll only have to wait about a month, and then I’ll know for sure.

As we reached the corner of Boyne Court, I spun around and hugged him. “Brigid, what’s wrong?” he said, stroking my hair.

“I’m scared, Sean.” I felt my whole body shake, and next thing I knew I was crying into his coat. “I’m so fucking scared,” I sobbed.

“Of eternal damnation?” he asked. “Honestly, what we did seems like a lesser sin. I think God’ll understand.”

“It’s not God I’m scared of,” I mumbled, snuggling into his shoulder. “What if I…you know…”

“What if you what?” he said gently.

I gulped and choked my tears back for a moment. “What if I get pregnant?” I whispered. I looked away from Sean and put my hands over my face, trying to push the tears back into my eyes. “You know I’m Catholic. I won’t be able to do anything about it. And Dad and Padraig’ll probably kill you, too.”

“Brigid, look at me.” I did, and I was surprised to see the determination on his face. “If you get pregnant, I’ll set things straight,” he said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ll marry you,” he said, drying my eyes with his thumb like I’d done for him just a couple of days ago. “I’d never, ever leave you to go through that on your own. As for your family,” he added grimly, “we can always elope before they find out.”

In spite of our situation, I laughed a little. “I lucked out, finding a man like you,” I told him, and he smiled shyly.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he said, kissing me on the cheek. “It’ll be all right.” We walked together until we had to go our separate ways. As we went, I thought about Sean’s promise. Really, I wouldn’t mind becoming Mrs. Brigid McLaughlin, but I’d prefer that to not be necessary yet.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

27 November 1971

Mum called me down to the kitchen this morning, after everyone in the house was gone. Her arms were crossed over her chest, a sight at odds with the homey smell of potato soup drifting from the stovetop. “Glad you decided to come home the other night, Brigid,” she said.

Oh, shit, here we go. “Mum, I can explain – ”

“Sit!” she shouted, pointing at a chair. I sank into it, my knees shaking, and she sat opposite me. “Now, I would love to know just where you were two nights ago and why you didn’t think it necessary to come home.”

I shut my eyes. I’d tell her about the wake, but there was no way in hell I was telling her what Sean and I had done under the bridge. “One of the McLaughlins’ kids died in the last car bomb accident,” I said. “Their oldest son Sean invited me to the wake, and I said I’d go.”

“The McLaughlins?” she said ominously. “You mean that nest of Brit loyalists down in Glenhill Park?”

“How do you know they’re loyalists?” I said hurriedly.

Mum’s eyes narrowed. “Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell, do you really think I’m that stupid?” she spat at me. “I’ve seen the woman walking down the street. I heard her asking for directions the other day. There’s no mistaking that accent. And any Brit is always going to be a loyalist!”

“ ‘Always!’” I cried, my anger getting the better of me. “It’s always ‘always’ and ‘never’ here! Why does everything about politics have to be in black and white?”

“That boy is a danger to you and your family, young lady!”

Next thing I knew, I was on my feet. “How can you say that?” I heard myself say in a voice deadlier than Mum’s. I remembered saying the same thing to Padraig. “How can you say that about Sean when you’ve never even met him? I know what he’s like, and there’s no way he’d hurt you or me or anyone else. It’s not in his nature, Mum!”

“A British Protestant boy, keeping you out of the house for an entire night, and you call him harmless?” Mum said, laughing scornfully. “I’ll believe that when I see Northern Ireland become part of the Republic, which’ll be never.”

I squared my shoulders and looked her in the eye. “I love him, Mum,” I said coldly. “I love Sean McLaughlin, and nothing you say can ever make me change my mind.”

Her eyes glowed fiercely. “Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to put an end to it myself,” she snarled. “You are to never speak to this Sean McLaughlin again. You are never to go near his house, walk with him or contact him.”

Anger made me bold. “And if I do?” I spat at her.

She smiled cruelly. “Then I’ll throw out your typewriter and burn your journal.”

I staggered backwards, my head reeling. “No,” I gasped. “You can’t do that!”

“Watch me.” She turned back to the soup on the stove. “Go up to your room. If I see you anywhere near that filthy Brit again, your typewriter journal’s going on the fire!”

I ran back upstairs to my room and slammed the door as loud as I could. A small, framed picture of my family and me fell off the wall and the glass in the frame shattered. Then I attacked my bed, punching my pillow and pretending it represented everything that was keeping me and Sean apart. Tears spilled freely out of my eyes, staining the sheets and splattering on the wood floor. I wanted to scream, but I kept it in somehow.

Slowly, I realized just how stupid I was being. Punching my pillow and crying wasn’t going to get me anywhere, and I had to tell Sean about what had happened. Briefly I remembered the night I’d spent in his arms, the beautiful sin we’d committed together, and that’s when I knew. I wasn’t going to stand for it. After what I’ve felt for him, nothing can ever keep me away from him. But I’d need to avoid him just for a little while, and he had to know why.

I went to my desk, pulled out my black typewriter and got to work.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

30 November 1971

Today I left early for Victoria Square, before Sean sets out from Glenhill Park. The sun hadn’t quite risen through the mist, and I shivered and hunched my shoulders to keep the cold out. Winter’s definitely coming, if it’s not here already. I hated walking through the streets without my arm in Sean’s. I reached into my coat pocket and fingered the letter, hoping against hope that he’d find it and understand. I walked up the Falls; the shadows of the Peace Line’s metal bars crisscrossed the sidewalk. Really, the damned walls have a pretty ironic name, seeing as they’re actually more of a problem than a cure.

Alone, I turned right onto Grosvenor. There’s a post box on the corner, badly placed so that you almost walk into it when you make the turn. Looking around quickly, I slipped the letter between the top and bottom of the slot. The name on the envelope, “Sean McLaughlin,” faced out towards the sidewalk, right at eye level. I prayed that it would stay there, unharmed by wind or rain that might come through. So much of my plan relied on chance…but it was the only choice I had. I turned away from the letter and continued on down the street alone.

_My dearest Sean, ___

_I’m afraid I’ll have to stay away from you for a little while. My mum found out about us, and she’s threatening to burn my typewriter journal if she catches us together. I’m not sure how long it’ll take for her to let her guard down. ___

_Until she does let it down, though, I’m not letting her scare me into not talking to you. I love you too much to even think of that. I’ll write you until we can meet again in secret. My family hears me typing up in my room all the time, so they won’t suspect anything. I’ll be leaving the letters here in this post box for you when I go to work. If you get this letter, please, please write back and leave your answer in the post box. If not…well, we’ll cross that bridge if we get to it, but I hope we won’t have to. ___

_I promise, my darling, I’ll see you soon. All the fires in hell couldn’t stop me. ___

_Love forever and always, ___

_Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell ___


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

1 December 1971

No word from Sean. I suppose it’s still a little too early to expect a reply.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

2 December 1971

Still nothing.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

3 December 1971

Nope.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

4 December 1971

Finally. I found a letter addressed to me in the post box on the way to Victoria Square this morning. “Thank you, God,” I whispered as I pulled the letter out. My hands shaking a bit, I slit the envelope open and read the letter in the shadow of the Peace Line.

_“My dear Red Brigid, ___

_I got your letter. Don’t worry yourself about not being able to see me, love. I understand. Honestly, I think it would be in the best interest of our safety, both of us, if we didn’t see each other for a little while. Maybe a couple of weeks. ___

_Please keep in touch. If the thing you told me you’re scared of happens, let me know as soon as you can, and we’ll sort it out somehow. I love you. ___

_Yours, Sean.” ___

I haven’t put Sean’s letter under the floorboard with my journal. Padraig might see the letter when he goes to get the gun. He knows not to touch anything I’ve written, but accidents might still happen. I’m hiding Sean’s letters in a place where I know no one will look, a place no one knows about but me: behind a bit of loose drywall in my closet. They’ll be safe there.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

9 December 1971

Well, I haven’t noticed any changes that would mean I’m…expecting. It’s been over two weeks; I’d think I would’ve been having effects by now, if it happened. Thanks to God that it seems it didn’t. At least Sean and I won’t have to figure out what to do about that now. I wrote to him again, telling him it didn’t happen and saying I wanted to see him. I think it’s safe now. Mum hasn’t been giving me any suspicious looks or funny questions for a while.

This morning I made a special trip to St. Paul’s to see our parish priest, Father Andrew Connolly. All my life he’s been a good friend of our family and done a lot for our church. He always seemed like a favorite grandfather to me, with his quiet way of speaking, twinkling blue eyes and face like a wrinkled sheet. He’s our usual confessor, and I can tell him things that I wouldn’t dare say to anyone else. I needed his help more than ever now.

As I eased open the old wooden door, I heard the soft whispering of people praying under the stained-glass windows. Hearing footsteps behind me, I turned to see Father Connolly walking towards me. “Good morning, Red Brigid,” he said, smiling at me. “How may I help you today?”

I took a deep breath. “I’ve come to confess, Father,” I said, feeling my face turn red.

He nodded, a serious look replacing the smile. “Come along, then,” he said, and I followed him to the beautifully carved confessional. When I was little, Padraig and Dechtire and I used to play hide-and-seek in the church after Mass, and the confessional was my favorite hiding place. Father Connolly slipped inside it, and I knelt before the screen and crossed myself.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I whispered through the screen to him. “I last confessed three weeks ago.”

He turned to face me. I could see the kind twinkle in his eye. “Please recite the prayer of contrition,” he said gently.

“O my God,” I said, “I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest my sins above every other evil because they displease Thee, my God, who, in Thy infinite wisdom, art so deserving of my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, never more to offend thee and to amend my life. Amen.”

“Now, tell me about your sin, my dear Brigid,” Father Connolly said. “You need not be afraid in a house of the Lord.”

I took another deep breath. I could feel tears coming to my eyes from the shame of it. “I had impure wishes for a man,” I choked, “and…and I acted on them with him.”

“I see,” he said. His tone is never accusing, which is why I go to him for confession. I feel bad enough already when I’ve sinned, so I don’t need a priest rubbing it in. “Do you repent this sin?” he asked.

“I do, but…there’s another sin to it, Father,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Another?” he said, looking gently at me through the screen. “Please tell me, my child.”

“He was English.” I gasped and started to cry in earnest. He didn’t say anything or give any sign of anger. “Oh, Father, I’ve dishonored my parents’ wishes for him,” I sobbed. “I love Sean so, Father, but I’m supposed to hate him. What should I do?”

Father Connolly paused. “You are in a hard position, Brigid,” he said. “True, you are disobeying one of the Lord’s commandments by loving this young man and dishonoring your parents. But let me tell you a little secret: never, in all my years as a priest, have I found anything saying that God believes loving someone with different politics is wrong.”

“But how do I know if my loving Sean cancels out the sin of dishonoring my parents?”

He sighed. “Unfortunately, that is a question I cannot answer,” he said. “Only you can decide if your love is right; no one can tell you that.”

“Not even God?” I asked, wiping my eyes.

“God can help you to decide, but He will leave the ultimate choice up to you,” said Father Connolly. “And now, I believe it’s time for the words of absolution.”

“Go on,” I said quietly, bowing my head.

He cleared his throat. “God the Father of mercies,” he recited, “through the death and resurrection of his Son, has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

Father Connolly smiled at me as I crossed myself, and I couldn’t help smiling back at him. “Thank you, Father,” I whispered.

He came out of the confessional and walked me to the door. “Remember, Brigid: love is never a sin in God’s eyes,” he said. “No matter what your loved one believes.”

“I hope you’re right,” I sighed, heaving the door open.

He patted me on the shoulder. “God bless you, my dear child,” he said kindly, “and may He bless your Sean as well.”  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

11 December 1971

I got a response from Sean this morning.

_“My beautiful Red Brigid, ___

_Let’s meet soon. My parents haven’t said anything about you for the past couple of weeks, so I think it’s safe. We can meet by the post box in two days, if that’ll work for you. Leave me a yes-or-no reply in the box when you can. ___

_I can’t wait to see you again. Letters are no replacement for your voice and your lips. ___

_Much love, Sean.” ___

I left a piece of paper with the word “yes” and my initials on it in the box.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

13 December 1971

Like he said he would in the letter, Sean was waiting for me by the post box. As soon as I reached him, I threw myself into his arms. “Sean,” I stammered, crying. “Sean…”

He stroked my hair. “Don’t cry, Brigid,” he said shakily. “Please don’t.”

“Why the hell not?” I gulped.

“Because then I will.” I looked up and saw that he was crying too. I kissed him.

“I’ve missed you so much,” I whispered.

“I’ve missed you too, love,” he said quietly. We started walking towards the docks. “What does your mum think you’re doing?”

“Going to get some books from the library,” I said, smiling a bit. “I hate lying to her, but she’s made it necessary. What about you?”

Sean laughed. “I told my parents the same thing!” he chuckled. “They think I’m going to read some more about Trinity College.”

We walked for a long time, just talking about things. Sean told me that Bobby was getting excited about Christmas and that Mr. McLaughlin hadn’t been drinking for about a week. I in turn told him about Padraig’s continuing work with the Provos and how much I wished he’d stop. It makes for a nice change, being able to talk about things without being afraid. We walked until we reached the docks, and then we stayed there until the sun started to set over Belfast.

We agreed to lie low for a bit again, and then meet each other next time an opportunity presents itself to either of us.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

19 December 1971

I wrote to Sean again. Hopefully he’ll be able to meet up with me…

_Dear Sean, ___

_Mum told me she’ll need me to go get carrots for the turkey on Christmas Eve. Are you doing anything that night? If you’re not, maybe we could both go get the carrots and spend some time together? I’d hate for Christmas to pass without seeing you. ___

_Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell ___

22 December 1971

Sean answered back!

_“Dear Red Brigid, ___

_I’ll be able to see you on Christmas Eve. Meet me by our post box around six then. Looking forward to seeing you again. ___

_Love, Sean.” ___

Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

24 December 1971

I’ve never been so excited about shopping for groceries. When Mum asked me to go get the carrots, I jumped up and put my coat on, even though it’s snowing cats and dogs outside. Never before have I seen such a blizzard on Christmas Eve! Belfast doesn’t get snow very much. I had to stagger and slide down the streets, keeping a hand on the bricks of the Peace Line to stop myself from falling on the ice.

As he promised, Sean was waiting for me by the post box. His dad’s apparently still drinking a lot: I could see another bruise healing on Sean’s cheek as I hugged him. “I’m glad you could meet, Sean,” I said over the howling of the snow and the wind. “It’s pretty bad tonight.”

He kissed me. “A little old blizzard can’t stop me from seeing you,” he said. We started walking down towards the center of town, holding hands. I loved how his hair caught the bursts of red, gold and green light from people’s Christmas trees as we passed the houses. He slipped on the ice on the corner of Grosvenor and Boyne Court, and he had to grab a signpost to stop himself from falling.

Then I bent down and scooped up some snow in my hands. “Brigid, what’re you doing?” he asked, looking suspiciously at the snow.

I let an evil grin serve as my answer. Very slowly and deliberately, I mushed the snow in my gloves into a ball.

His eyes widened. “No! Don’t you dare!” he shouted, delight in his eyes, and he ran off up the street. My snowball hit him in the back, leaving a big wet spot on his coat. Laughing, I ran past him, and I heard him cry happily, “I’ll get you for that, Brigid O’Donnell!” I ran, zigzagging up and down the road, listening to the pounding of his feet behind me. Then I heard him catch up to me and felt a payload of snow drop onto my head, melting in my hair.

“Gotcha,” Sean said, wrapping his arms around me and helping me brush the snow out of my hair.

I turned around and looked up at him. Beaming, I shook my head. “You bastard.” He laughed and bent down to kiss me.

Sean went into the store with me while I bought the carrots. Mrs. Mulligan, the shop owner, gave him a suspicious look, but she didn’t say anything. The two of us slipped and slid back out into icy Victoria Square, where lights were strung all around. I could hear carols coming from nearby churches on both sides.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” I whispered.

“What’s amazing?”

“Listen.” We stood there for a minute quietly. The strains of “O Little Town Of Bethlehem” reached our ears from both directions. “The Protestants and the Catholics are singing the same song,” I said.

He smiled sadly. “Maybe if they could hear each other tonight, they’d get along better,” he sighed. Then he glanced at me a little nervously. “I’ve got a present for you,” he said.

I smiled back at him. “What is it?”

Sean reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a little wooden box. Looking around, he opened it to show it to me. Leaning over, I saw something shining. A ring sat inside the box, and not just any ring: a Claddagh ring, the old Irish wedding band. A tiny emerald heart glinted in the glare of the streetlamps and Christmas lights, topped with a silver crown and held by two silver hands.

“It’s not much,” Sean said, and I could see that he was blushing. “I know gold’s more traditional, but I couldn’t afford it, and – ”

He couldn’t finish his sentence. I’d jumped on him and kissed him. I don’t know how long we stood there, holding each other as the last-minute Christmas shoppers walked past through the snow. All I knew was that if there is a heaven, I’d stepped into it.

When I finally let him go, he took the Claddagh ring out and slipped it on my left-hand ring finger so that the heart was pointing in, towards me. “Thank you,” I managed to gasp, happy tears in my eyes.

Sean smiled at me and reached into his pocket. He pulled out an identical Claddagh ring, silver with an emerald heart, and put it on his own left-hand ring finger. “Merry Christmas, Red Brigid,” he said shyly.

“Merry Christmas, my love,” I said. We kissed again for just a moment before turning to go back home.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

29 December 1971

I’ve been wearing Sean’s ring ever since he gave it to me on Christmas Eve. Mum and Dad haven’t asked about it; I don’t think Dad’s even noticed it on my hand. It’s so small that it could go unnoticed.

Dechtire saw it, though. We were playing twenty-one in my room when I saw her staring at my left hand. “Where’d you get that, Brigid?” she asked, pointing at my ring finger.

I looked at it. Casually, I said, “A boy I know gave it to me.”

She grinned evilly. “A boy you’re in _looove _with?” she teased.__

“No, some random boy off the street,” I said sarcastically, throwing her another card. “Mum and Dad don’t want me to see him, though, so please keep your mouth shut.”

“Why don’t they want you to see him?”

I didn’t answer. Instead I said, “Twist?”

“Sure.” I threw her a card, the king of spades. “Damn,” she muttered, handing the cards back to me so I could shuffle. “Busted.” As I did, she leaned closer, squinting at the ring. “It’s a nice ring,” she commented. “That’s an emerald, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Dechtire didn’t ask anything else about Sean after that. I think she knew I was hiding something, though, because I could see her yearning to ask more questions in her eyes. But I can’t really trust my younger brothers and sisters to be able to keep secrets. You never know when they might let something slip.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

1 January 1972 – Half Past One

We all stayed up late tonight. Well, Maebh clocked out around nine, and Finn followed half an hour later, so I suppose we didn’t all make it. Mum said she’d stay home with them, so around a quarter past eleven Dad, Padraig, Liam, Dechtire and I all wrapped scarves around our faces and started our walk towards the city centre. We always like to stand on the Ann Street Bridge and watch the fireworks.

I told Sean on Christmas Eve that I wouldn’t be able to see him at New Year’s. He was disappointed, of course, but he understood. When my family and I reached the bridge, I couldn’t help remembering what we’d done down by the river Lagan the night of Katie’s wake. The spot where we’d fallen asleep drew my eyes like a magnet; I doubt I’ll ever forget that spot. Almost unconsciously, I adjusted my ring.

“What’re you looking at, Red Brigid?” Liam asked me from behind, startling me out of my thoughts.

“Nothing,” I muttered, and I tore my eyes away from the riverbank.

We all stopped and stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the skies. It was a beautiful night: yesterday’s storms had rained themselves out, leaving a perfectly clear night for the fireworks. The stars seemed to wink down at me from their black background, as if they knew of the secrets I’ve been keeping from my family. I found myself looking up at them and the round white moon for a long time, wondering what other secrets they were privy to.

The fireworks started about ten minutes after we got there. The clock in Victoria Square rang out, and I could hear cheers from the distant pubs and homes. Out of nowhere, fiery streaks of light shot into the black skies, exploding into flowery bursts of color. Red, green and purple streaks sprang into the heavens, lighting Belfast below. As the wind tangled my hair, making me shiver, I wished more than ever that Sean was beside me with his arm around my shoulders, keeping me warm. Even though I was surrounded by my family, I’ve never felt so lonely.

Padraig took Sean’s place. He put a big, muscular arm around me and hugged me. “You cold?” he asked.

I nodded. My ring reflected the fireworks, making the silver hands and crown glow redder than my hair. Thoughts of Sean kept invading my head: I wondered where he was, how his family was celebrating, if they were at all. Mr. McLaughlin doesn’t seem like the type of man who’d want to stay up until midnight with his family. I felt tears coming to my eyes, rolling down my face and stinging in the cold air.

Padraig held me tighter. If he was wondering why I was crying, he didn’t ask. “We should ring in 1972 properly,” he said quietly. In spite of myself, I smiled. That’s his way of saying we need to sing “Auld Lang Syne.”

Apparently Dechtire heard him mention it. She turned to Padraig, beaming. “Sing, Padraig!” she demanded. She always loves to hear him singing.

Padraig grinned, took a deep breath and belted out the first line: _“Should all acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind…” ___

Dad, Liam and Dechtire joined in. _“Should all acquaintance be forgot, in days of auld lang syne.” ___

Padraig paused and wiggled my shoulder. “Come on, Brigid,” he said gently. “Sing with us. You have a prettier voice than all of us put together.”

I sighed, pretending to be annoyed, and looked away from them to wipe my eyes. Then, I turned back to my family as another round of fireworks burst into the sky with a loud “wheeeee.” I finished out the song with the chorus, Dad and Padraig joining me, Liam and Dechtire an octave below. _“For auld lang syne, my friend, for auld lang syne / We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne.” ___

We stayed on the Ann Street Bridge for a bit after the fireworks ended, waiting for the other watchers on the bridge to leave. As we started to walk home, I saw a tall, thin young man with black hair striding past us. My heart jumped; perhaps it was Sean. But even if it had been him, I couldn’t have greeted him and wished him a Happy New Year in front of my family.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

9 January 1972

I met Sean by the post box again this morning. As he put his arms around me, I said quietly to him, “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you at New Year’s.”

“Don’t worry about it, love,” he said kindly. “You should spend a night like that with family and nobody else.” He held my hand as we started walking towards work.

“I see you’re still wearing your ring,” he said, blushing a bit.

I smiled at him. He was wearing his, too. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Doesn’t anyone in your family say anything about it?”

“No,” I said. “My dad and mum never notice anything like that. My sister Dechtire saw it, but she doesn’t ask many questions.”

He nodded and we walked on. All of a sudden, Sean yanked his hand out of mine and threw a punch at the Peace Line. It looked like it hurt, but he did it again. His hand made a dull slapping noise against the bricks.

“Sean!” I cried, pulling him away from the wall. “Sean, what’re you doing?”

“How do you like that, eh?” he was yelling at the graffitied bricks. He was struggling so hard against me that I almost fell over trying to stop him attacking the Peace Line again. “How do you like hurting, eh, you bloody fucking walls?”

And he spat on the ground at the Peace Line. I was a bit worried about him; I’d be concerned about anyone screaming curses at a brick wall. But I just took him firmly by the arm and said, “Come on, Sean. Let’s go.”

He let me pull him away from the Peace Line. I could feel the grit from the bricks stuck to his hand. “What the hell was that?” I said to him as we turned onto Boyne Court. “You do realize you were yelling at a brick wall, don’t you?”

Sean ran a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah,” he sighed. “I just…I had to let it out, okay? I hate it, I hate that we’re not allowed to be together because of something as stupid as politics.”

“I know,” I murmured, glancing down at my ring. It was cloudy today, but the silver still seemed to shine. “I know.”

Sean’s eyes were wet. “Why can’t we all just try getting along for a change?”

I turned and kissed him, brushing his tears away with my lips. “Seems like that’s the reasonable answer,” I told him. “But I do think some people want to let things go. Everyone’s just too bitter to be able to.”

I think it’s the truth, the awful, sad truth. Too many wrongs have been done on both sides for either one to just sweep it under the rug. Ireland and England may not be bosom friends, but no one can deny that we have something in common: a history of mistakes.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

13 January 1972

Maebh came upstairs to my room this afternoon and said shyly, “Brigid, can you help me?”

I moved away from my typewriter and sat down on the bed. “Of course, Maebh,” I said, patting the mattress. She bounced up and sat beside me, Dad’s giant leather-bound Irish history book balanced on her small knees. “What do you need?”

Maebh pushed the cover open. Inside was a piece of folded, yellowed paper. Its edges were torn and frayed, and it had been folded so long that the crease was tight and almost sharp. Words written in fine cursive were visible through the back of the sheet, the blue ink bleeding through the transparent paper. “What’s that?” I asked Maebh.

Carefully, she pulled it out and unfolded it. “I can’t read the handwriting,” she said, looking at me with wide blue eyes. “Can you read it to me, Brigid?”

I nodded, and she handed the paper over. It looked like a poem in Irish. The words were organized into five groups of four long lines each. Down at the bottom was a small note: _“Eamon O’Donnell, 24 April 1916.” ___

“This was our great-granddad’s paper,” I told Maebh. “He wrote it down.”

“Read it!” she cried excitedly.

I turned my attention back to the paper. I can speak Irish better than I can read it, so it took me a while to get what the lines were saying. But after I read the first group of lines, I recognized it instantly: it was the old folk song “The Foggy Dew,” about the Easter Rising in 1916. I told Maebh this, and she nodded solemnly. For a six-year-old, she has a decent understanding of what happened that day and what it meant for our family.

“What’re the words to the song?” she asked. “Can you sing it for me, Brigid?”

I smiled. “All right,” I said, and I sang the song for her:

_“As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I, ___  
_There armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by. ___  
_No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo, ___  
_But the Angelus bells o’er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew. ___

_“Right proudly high in Dublin Town they flung out the flag of war. ___  
_‘Twas better to die ‘neath an Irish sky than at Sulva or Sud-El-Bar. ___  
_And from the plains of Royal Meath, strong men came hurrying through _  
_ While Britannia’s sons, with their long-range guns, sailed in through the foggy dew._

_“ ‘Twas England bade our Wild Geese go, that small nations might be free, ___  
_But their lonely graves are by Sulva’s waves or the shore of the Great North Sea. ___  
_Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha, _  
_ Their names we’d keep where the Fenians sleep, ‘neath the shroud of the foggy dew._

_“But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear ___  
_For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year. ___  
_And the world did gaze in deep amaze at those fearless men, but few, _  
_ Who bore the fight that freedom’s light might shine through the foggy dew._

_“And back through the glen I rode again, and my heart with grief was sore, ___  
_For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more. ___  
_But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you, _  
_ For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.”_

Maebh was quiet for a moment after I finished the song. “Wow,” she finally said.

“It’s a pretty song, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yeah.” She was quiet for another minute or two. “Brigid, did things get better for Ireland when Pearse and the other rebels died?”

I wanted with all my heart to say yes. But something stopped me. I thought of the IRA and how our family had suffered because of the membership of Great-Granddad Eamon, Uncle Oisin, my cousins, and now Padraig. Then I remembered the bombs that had almost killed me on the way home from work, and the one that had killed Katie McLaughlin as she walked home from school. And I thought of Sean, my dark-eyed Anglo-Irishman, and how there’s no place for our love here in Belfast, all because of the war that began on Easter Monday, 1916.

“No, Maebh,” I said.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

21 January 1972

Great news: Sean’s been accepted to Trinity College down in Dublin! He told me this morning by our post box. “I’m starting in the fall,” he said, his dark eyes glowing.

“That’s wonderful, Sean,” I said, beaming at him. “You’ll be studying journalism, right?”

He shrugged, a grin lighting up his face. “That’s the plan right now, but I’m open to change. If I find something I like better while I’m there, I’ll do that.”

I held his hand as we walked on down Grosvenor. “I’m so happy for you,” I told him, and I meant it. “If anyone deserved to get into Trinity, it was you.”

He laughed. “I appreciate that, Red Brigid.” We walked on for a ways in silence.

When we reached the corner of Boyne Court, Sean stopped. “What is it?” I asked, turning back to look at him.

He was blushing. “I have something I want to ask you,” he said, looking down at the icy sidewalk. “You’ll probably think I’m mad, though.”

“No, go on. What do you want to ask me?”

He took a deep breath and put his hands on my shoulders. There was an intensity, a purpose, in his eyes that I remembered seeing before we did that under the Ann Street bridge. “I want you to come with me,” he stammered.

“What?” I gasped.

“When I go to Trinity,” Sean said, taking both of my hands. “Will you come away with me to Dublin and marry me there?”

“Sean – ” I started, but he rambled on, his face bypassing red and turning burgundy.

“It’s different in Dublin,” he said. “They won’t give a shit about me being English. We could be free there, just you and me and…and our kids, if we have them. Please, Brigid,” he begged, and he actually got down on one knee, “come to Dublin with me.”

I looked at him for a long while, trying to find the right words. “Well, I think you being English might still be a problem for people in Dublin,” I sighed.

“But we won’t have to worry about getting killed at every step.”

“Good point,” I murmured, touching his face.

“But will you do it?” he asked. The love and the pain in his face made him look almost like an old man. “Will you marry me, Brigid?”

I thought for a minute, my heart hammering. I felt the Claddagh ring he gave me, cold metal against my skin. Then I smiled at him and said, “Yes.”

“Yes!” Sean’s shout rang out in the cold January air. He leapt back to his feet and hugged me so tightly that he lifted me off the ground. When he put me back down, he said, “I’ll let you know…when it’s time to go down to Dublin.”

I held his hand again. “I love you, Sean McLaughlin,” I said quietly. “And I’d do anything for you.” The words echoed solemnly on the ice, against the bricks and metal of the Peace Line.

I know it was madness, agreeing to run away to Dublin and marry Sean. And I know I’ll be leaving behind everything I’ve ever known, including my family. But what Father Connolly told me during my confession was true: only I can decide whether our love is right. And I have decided; it is right, and going to Dublin with him is right. I love him, and I’d do anything in this world for him.

If I have to leave my life in Belfast behind for him, so be it.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

30 January 1972

Something happened in Derry today. It was all over the news this evening. A crowd gathered in Bogside there to protest internment: arresting people suspected of being in the IRA and keeping them without a trial. This is what happened to Dad and my brothers last September. Soldiers from the British Army were sent in to break up the protest, and they fired into the crowd. They killed thirteen people; seven of them were teenage boys.

As soon as he heard about it, Padraig left the house. When I asked him where he was going, he glared at me and said, “Stay out of it, Brigid.” Dechtire and I were assigned the task of countering Maebh, Liam and Finn’s endless questions about what had happened in Derry.

Padraig came home after everyone else in the house was asleep. I thought I knew where he’d gone and who he’d talked to, but I couldn’t talk to him in my room. So I waited up for him.

When he finally came back into my room through the window, I stood up. “What’re you still doing up, Brigid?” he asked.

“We need to talk. Now.” I felt a strange, deadly sense of purpose. “Come into the sitting-room with me.” He followed me downstairs, and we sat on the sofa together. The streetlamp outside cast a ghostly orange glow over his pale face.

I took a deep breath. “You’re planning something, Padraig,” I said. “I know you went to talk to your friends in the Provos tonight. Just what’re you up to?”

He glared at me. He looked frightening: his hair stood on end, and his face was white but determined. “You’re right, I talked to them,” he said furiously. “They heard about Derry too. They’re holding a riot by City Hall tomorrow. And I have to be a part of it.”

Something inside my head snapped. Next thing I knew I was on my feet, my hands balled into fists. “No you don’t!” I cried as quietly as I could. “You’ve taken this too far, Padraig. I honestly think you care more about the Provos and what happens to Northern Ireland than you do about our family!”

“Brigid, how many times do I have to tell you?” Padraig snarled, standing up too. “I’m part of the IRA _because _of our family. I want to do something to make our lives better, and fighting for change is the only way to make it happen!”__

“No it’s not!” I shrieked. “Don’t you see that there is no way to fix the Troubles? Nobody’s going to back down, so there’s no point to fighting anymore! Has it changed anything so far? Have our lives really gotten better? Or have innocent people just died for nothing?”

“Shut it.” Padraig’s voice had taken on a low, dangerous sound that struck me silent. “I know what’s happened to you. That Brit Sean McLaughlin’s brainwashed you into thinking something that’s not true. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’ve kept quiet about you and him. So you can repay me and not say anything to Mum, Dad or anyone else. Got it?”

“Padraig, you’re upset, you’re not thinking straight, please don’t do this – ”

“I said, _got it?” _he repeated, his voice rising. I shrank away from him.__

“Fine,” I said. My sight was all blurry from the tears in my eyes, making Padraig’s outline look all fuzzy. “Fine. Get yourself arrested or killed, and the rest of us too. You’re the one who’ll have to live with yourself!” I shouted the last few words and turned my back on him.

Padraig stared at me for a long time. I could feel his eyes on me even though I was looking away from him. Then he said, very quietly, “Don’t think that I haven’t asked myself all the things you just asked me, Brigid. I may be in the IRA, but I’m not a monster.” He left the room and I listened to his footsteps on the stairs.

I’m staying away from work tomorrow. Really, if something’s going to happen near where I work, it would be a good idea to stay home. But I have to make sure Sean knows that something’s going on.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

31 January 1972

There is no God. Not in Northern Ireland, anyway.

Sean and Padraig are dead.

I got up early this morning to stop Sean from going to work. As quietly as I could, I let myself out of the house and stood in the street, watching and waiting for him. The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and the wind was so cold that it was like being touched by ghosts. I folded my arms and hunched my shoulders against the wind.

Then I saw him coming up from Glenhill Park. When he spotted me, he started running towards me. I caught him in my arms. “Thank God you’re safe,” he whispered in my ear. “I heard about what happened in Derry, or Londonderry, or whatever the hell it’s called.”

“Sean,” I began, but he ranted on.

“It’s horrible, just awful, and knowing that my home country’s responsible – ”

“Sean, listen to me,” I cut him off. I took his face in my hands and looked him right in the eyes. He had to understand how serious this was. “The Provos are marching today downtown, my brother Padraig told me. I don’t know what they’re going to do. I’m staying home, and you should too. Please, Sean, don’t go to the docks today!”

“I can’t skive off work again, love,” he protested.

“I don’t give a fuck about your fucking work!” I shouted at him, and a few blackbirds flew out of a nearby tree. “Please. Stay home.”

“If I just explain to them that I’m not part of it, they’ll probably leave me alone,” he said soothingly. I marveled at the stupidity of that comment. “I have to go to work. My dad’s started drinking again, and we need the money.”

“Sean…”

“Don’t worry about me,” he said, kissing me on the forehead. “Worry about yourself and your brother first.” He gave me a smile and started walking on up the street.

“Sean!” I shouted after him, but he kept on walking. I stood there for a minute, vaguely aware that I was shaking. Then I turned around, ran back in the house, and threw my coat on. Keeping well behind him, I followed him down to Donegall Quay.

I hung around the docks all day, keeping an eye on Sean from a distance and watching out for the Provos and supporters at the same time. The protest didn’t happen until the afternoon, when people started getting let off work. Sean started walking away from the docks, and I followed him. Off in the square, I could hear a mass of sound: people yelling and singing, and guns being fired off. From behind, I could see Sean shooting worried glances at the sounds, and I shivered as I realized that the way we take to get home goes right past City Hall and the main square. Sean and I walked separately towards what would turn out to be doom.

We rounded the corner, and a scene of total chaos met our eyes. Clouds of dust and smoke so thick that they turned people into dark shadows hovered over the square. Shouts, screams and gunshots attacked my eardrums. Just ahead of me, Sean broke into a run, and I charged into the dust after him. When I reached him, I grabbed his hand.

“Brigid!” he shouted over all the noise. “What’re you doing here?”

“Never mind, just run!” I screamed back. We bolted through the crowd of Provos and Volunteers and police and bystanders all around us. I couldn’t see anyone’s face; I could barely breathe with all the junk in the air. My mind was focused on one thing only: get both of us out of here alive. I felt like I could’ve outrun death itself if I had to.

The shot must’ve come from our left, because I remember hearing it come from that direction. For just a minute I thought that we were still safe, until I felt Sean’s hand slip out of mine. Even then I thought that he’d just fallen and was getting back up. But then I heard the screams. I turned around and felt my heart stop.

Sean was lying on the ground, shuddering and writhing. I remember thinking he looked like a fish out of the water. I ran over and knelt beside him, and then I saw it. The blood. His chest and left shoulder were drenched in it, his shirt and coat dyed a brilliant shade of red.

“Oh, God,” I whispered. I put his head in my lap, my hands shaking. Blood gushed from the wound in his chest, blooming like scarlet flowers on his shirt. It was the most vibrant, most perfect shade of red, even brighter than my hair. “Oh, holy mother of God – ”

Sean smiled weakly at me. His breathing had a weird, harsh sound to it, and his chest heaved every time he drew some air. His long hands were amazingly white against the redness of his blood, and his silver Claddagh ring was stained with it. “I’ll be all right,” he gasped. With a rush of horror, I could see his eyes closing. “Already it doesn’t hurt so much,” he said quietly.

“No,” I stammered, pressing my own hands on the wound to try and stop it. I vaguely registered that his blood was warm, so warm that it was steaming in the winter air. “No, Sean, don’t die, please don’t die – ”

He grinned up at me as his own blood dripped onto the sidewalk around us. “Kiss me, Red Brigid?” he asked with just a hint of his old mischief.

I obeyed him without question. I’ve never kissed him like I did then, as if I thought my kiss could give him enough strength to live. When I broke away from him, something in his dark eyes had disappeared. I shook him, but his head and arms just flapped around.

Someone was screaming and sobbing nearby. It was a few minutes before I realized it was me. I bent down and covered Sean’s face with kisses, crying out his name. My tears mixed with the blood and the dirt on his face. I clung onto him, lying over him by City Hall as people ran all around us and Belfast exploded.

I stumbled to my feet and looked at my hands. They were red with Sean’s blood, as were my pants and the bottom half of my shirt. I slid my hands under his shoulders and started to drag him away from the square, away from the battle that had killed him. He was so heavy that I swerved to one side and fell over on the pavement. I shut my eyes and choked back my tears, trying not to remember the different kind of heaviness I’d felt with him.

“Come on, Brigid. There’ll be plenty of time to cry later,” I heard myself mutter thickly. I pulled myself to my feet again and kept on dragging Sean up the street, leaving a trail of blood.

Then someone with wild red hair darted past me. Even with the smoke and dust and insanity all around, I instantly recognized his broad chest and massive hands. “Padraig!” I screamed as he ran away into the riot. I set Sean down and ran after Padraig, promising myself I’d come back for Sean.

Not a minute later, a gunshot went off. Blood exploded from Padraig’s head and he collapsed on the ground, his gun falling from his hands. I staggered over to my big brother and knelt beside him just as I’d done with Sean. For a minute he seemed to recognize me, and then his head fell back limply. I put a hand on his chest. There wasn’t a heartbeat.

Screaming and sobbing again, I dragged Padraig around the corner and stowed him in an alleyway. Then I went back for Sean. I put him in the alleyway next to Padraig. I hesitated, and then took the reddened Claddagh ring off of Sean’s finger. For a minute I looked at them: two bloodied bodies with wide, staring, empty eyes, all that was left of my brother and my boyfriend. Then I turned and ran all the way home, following the Peace Line.

Mum and Dechtire both screamed when they saw me. I must’ve looked quite a sight, all covered in blood and shaking. “Sweet Jesus, what happened to you, Brigid?” Mum cried. The rest of our family came hurtling into the kitchen to stare at me.

“They’re dead.” The words seemed to echo in the kitchen.

“Who is?” Dad asked sharply. “Who’s dead, Brigid?”

I broke. “PADRAIG AND SEAN!” I wailed, collapsing to my knees on the tile. “PADRAIG AND SEAN MCHLAUGHLIN ARE DEAD!”

I heard Mum start to sob above me. Dad helped me to my feet and asked, “How?”

“At the protest in the square,” I wept. Sean’s ring slipped from my shaking fingers and clattered to the floor, leaving spots of blood as it bounced. “I saw it. I moved them.”

I explained to Dad where they were, and he went off to find them. I made my way upstairs and fell into my desk chair. Blindly, my eyes and mouth sore from crying, I typed out the story here. I can’t get the sight of Sean and Padraig, covered in blood and lying dead in the alley, out of my head.

There is no God.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation of Irish Words and Names
> 
> Aoife = EEF-uh  
> Brigid = BRIDGE-id  
> Cathal Brugha = CATH-el BROO  
> Claddagh = CLOD-uh  
> Dechtire = DECK-teer-uh  
> Diarmuid = DEER-mid  
> Fenian = FEEN-ee-an  
> Fianna = FEEN-uh  
> Maebh = MAYVE  
> McLaughlin = mick-LOFF-lynn  
> Micheál = mee-HALL (slight guttural sound on the “hall”)  
> Oisin = osh-EEN  
> Padraig = PAW-drig  
> Saoirse = SEER-shuh

3 February 1972

It’s weird, knowing that Sean and Padraig aren’t with us anymore. I keep expecting to see my big brother stomping through the front door, complaining about the bloody UVF as usual. I keep thinking I’m seeing Sean walking towards me through the rain every morning when I go to work, smiling and ready to let me slip my arm into his. Then I remember. And I’m reminded of it every night: both of them keep weaving in and out of my dreams, never talking to me, covered in blood and staring straight ahead with lifeless eyes.

I don’t know if Padraig fired the shot that killed Sean. It might’ve been, it might not. I don’t know, and I don’t really want to.

The day they died, Dad found them and brought Sean back to his family. I had to go too, to tell them what happened. I thought the McLaughlins would be angry with us for my brother’s role in the riot that killed their son, but no. They thanked us for bringing his body to them, and thanked me for trying to stop him going to work that day.

“He loved you very much, Miss O’Donnell,” Mrs. McLaughlin told me. She wasn’t crying; it seemed that her grief went beyond tears. “I know he did.”

The worst part was when Bobby, Sean’s youngest sibling, looked at me and managed a smile. “Thank you for bringing my big brother back, Miss Brigid.” He’s a Black Irish boy: his eyes are dark and fierce, with long black eyelashes like a deer’s. Just like Sean’s.

The McLaughlins and my family had a double wake at their house last night. Mr. McLaughlin wasn’t drunk. He didn’t say much; he just sat in the corner with a mug of tea, pale and wide-eyed like a ghost. I stayed away from the coffins. They made me think of things I don’t want to remember right now: Katie McLaughlin’s wake and Mr. McLaughlin trying to beat us. How Sean and I had sex (yes, I’ll say it, no point in keeping it hidden anymore) under the Ann Street Bridge. Sean telling me that he was going to Trinity in the fall and asking me to marry him, and how we planned to go to Dublin. Sean’s Claddagh ring, the silver stained with blood.

We’ve agreed to bury Sean and Padraig next to each other in the Belfast City Cemetery, instead of the cemeteries in our churches. Even though the cemetery’s technically in a Catholic part of town, it doesn’t distinguish between Protestants and Catholics. And it shouldn’t.

The funeral’s tomorrow.  
Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell

4 February 1972

The funeral was pretty quiet. Somehow, we managed to scrape up enough money to hire a hearse each for Padraig and Sean. We all walked slowly on the sidewalk behind the cars, not speaking much. I held Maebh’s hand, and when Bobby McLaughlin snuck up behind me and tugged on the hem of my dress, looking hopeful, I nodded and he held Maebh’s other hand. In my free hand, I carried Padraig’s gun, which Dad brought back from the alley. Mr. McLaughlin was still sober.

When we got to the cemetery, we proceeded straight to the site we’d chosen together for the graves: two plots side by side under an old oak tree. It wasn’t raining, but the sky was a stormy gray and a light mist hung over everything. The hearse drivers helped the fathers lift the coffins into each grave. When Padraig had been lowered, I took one last glance at the gun. Dried blood stained the barrel an ugly reddish brown. I threw the gun into the grave with my brother.

Each of us said a few prayers over the coffins. I willed myself not to break down as I looked into the two holes, at the two lids over the boys I loved. This would be the last chance I ever got to look at more than pictures of them. Then, when all the prayers were done, I picked up a shovel and flung a scoop of dirt into Sean’s grave. It made a funny, dull thumping sound, and for one wonderful minute I almost laughed. The others joined me with spades of their own, and soon enough there was a mound of freshly dug earth over each grave.

Everyone started to turn to leave. “Do you mind if I stay a moment, Mum?” I asked. She shook her head, wailing; I doubt she even understood what she was agreeing to. I watched the hearses pull out of the distant cemetery gates, the McLaughlins and O’Donnells following on foot. And then I was alone next to the two graves.

I reached into my coat and pulled out a tiny wooden box. It was the box that my Claddagh ring from Sean came in. I opened it and checked the folded letter inside one last time to make sure it was secure, along with the two rings, one silver, one brownish-red. Then I set it on the ground between the two headstones and stood back. For a minute I just looked at what the stones said: _“Sean Micheál McLaughlin, 28 July 1952 – 31 January 1972” _and_ “Padraig Pearse O’Donnell, 2 March 1950 – 31 January 1972.”_ Then, below the names and dates, the same words: _“Beloved son and brother.” _For the first time since they’d died, I was crying.__

“Goodbye,” I whispered to them. I turned my back on the graves and started to walk home, remembering what my letter had said.

_Dear Padraig and Sean, ___

_I know you will never read this letter. I’m writing on 1 February 1972, the day after you both died in a riot in Belfast. Yours are just two more names in the long list of dead from Northern Ireland. Sean, you were twenty; Padraig, you were twenty-one. You would’ve been twenty-two in March. Both of you died in my arms. ___

_Some might say that you gave your lives for a reason. That you both died during a struggle for a free Ireland two days after what’s now being called “Bloody Sunday.” I say that these ideas are mistaken. It was a pointless battle, one that might never be settled, one that claimed both fighters and random people walking home from work. There was no logic or reason to either of your deaths. ___

_On the outside, you seemed very different. One was an Irish Catholic, the other an English Protestant; one was a warrior for the Provos and the other was a young man who just plain wasn’t involved. In reality, your religions and politics were the only things different about you. You were both loyal, brave, kind men. You had families, the same number of siblings. You were willing to fight to keep those you held dear safe. ___

_But most of all, I loved both of you. ___

_I don’t know if there is any answer to the problems we face. So far, neither fighting nor cooperating has done anything. But I make you both a promise today, over your graves: I will make sure you didn’t die in vain. I will tell your stories. I will speak of my big brother Padraig and my boyfriend Sean, and tell how they died the same day, their lives snuffed out by bullets. I will tell how their deaths brought the McLaughlin and O’Donnell families together in friendship, something none of us thought possible. ___

_I will say how it doesn’t matter if people are republicans or loyalists, Catholics or Protestants, Irish or British. I will say all that matters is this: in the end, we’re all human. I will make sure the world hears your cries for justice and peace, cries echoed across all of Northern Ireland, and I will do all I can to make sure the world listens. ___

_Love forever and always, ___  
_Your sister and your girlfriend, _  
_ Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell_


	14. Epilogue

A week after the deaths of Padraig O’Donnell and Sean McLaughlin, their surviving family members staged a nonviolent march to Belfast’s city center. Many residents from their part of town, both from Falls and Shankill on the other side of the Peace Line, joined the two grieving families. A sober Jack McLaughlin walked arm in arm with Aoife O’Donnell, and Dechtire O’Donnell held hands with Karen McLaughlin. Marching at the head of the crowd was Brigid Saoirse O’Donnell, completely silent for the first time in the memory of anyone who knew her. Her long, dark red hair was tied neatly back in two plaits. She carried a small painted sign done by her sister Dechtire: the two dead young men and, below them, two Claddagh rings, one silver and clean, the other spattered with blood.

Brigid broke her silence when the marchers reached the city center. Still holding the sign, she gave an impassioned speech telling of her love for Sean and the violence that tore apart their families. “It’s a damned shame that two boys we loved had to die before we saw that peace is the only real answer to this mess,” she said, her voice strong and clear through her tears. Her words, given from the heart, were so moving that even though members of the Provos and the Ulster Volunteer Force were in the surrounding crowd, not one stone was hurled at the protesters.

After the protest, the McLaughlins and the O’Donnells retreated into peace with one another. All the members of both families visited the graves of Sean and Padraig every January 31st. They maintained regular contact, working through the grieving process and healing together. Amazingly, the unspoken truce that the families had reached influenced many others in Falls. Their streets, Glen Road and Glenhill Park, were two of the few streets that both Catholics and Protestants could move through without fear of suspicion or injury.

Brigid and Sean’s nineteen-year-old brother, George, were instrumental in helping Jack find treatment for his alcoholism. This process cultivated a friendship between George and Brigid and gradually, the friendship grew into love. Brigid finally agreed to marry George in 1982, ten years after the deaths of Sean and Padraig, and the ceremony was finalized on June 18th that year. They combined their surnames to create O’Laughlin. They later had three children, two boys and one girl: Katie, Padraig and Sean O’Laughlin. Theirs, while not the first Irish-English intermarriage, was the first Protestant-Catholic intermarriage in both of their families.

In the ten years between the deaths and her marriage, and after she was married as well, Brigid threw herself into the cause for peace in Northern Ireland. She fulfilled her dream of becoming a newspaper reporter, earning a degree in journalism from Columbia College in Chicago. While in the United States, she gathered a sizable number of petitions for peace from the faculty and the neighborhoods of Chicago, as well as from her fellow students, and sent these petitions back home to the legislative bodies in her city. Upon graduating, she returned to Belfast to work as a reporter for _The Belfast Telegraph. _She soon discovered the organization Peace People, formed in 1976, and became one of its most vocal members.__

Even after the Peace People faded into obscurity in 1980, Brigid continued to spread the word about the ongoing violence in her homeland. Her job as a reporter took her all over Northern Ireland, the Republic of Ireland, and England. No matter where she went, she spoke to the people there of the peace that she wanted for her country. Throughout her career as a newspaper reporter, Brigid Saoirse O’Laughlin organized several nonviolent marches and sit-ins in the name of peace for Northern Ireland.

The Provisional IRA (Provos) announced an end to its armed resistance against the British and loyalist/unionist supporters on July 28th, 2005.


End file.
